


The Death of a Bachelor

by UndergroundValentine



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Aggression, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Corporate, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Disorder, Cocaine, Cocaine Abuse, Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, F/M, Foster Child!Rey, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, Inspired by P!ATD's Death of a Bachelor album, Kylo Ren Has Issues, M/M, Mechanic!Rey, Multi, POV Kylo Ren, Rehabilitation, Slow Build, Slow Burn, drug relapse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 50,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5812738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndergroundValentine/pseuds/UndergroundValentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fall of Ben Solo is about as chaotic as can be expected given the circumstances, and the rise of Kylo Ren is not without its own destruction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Is Gospel

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to an idea that's been tickling my brain since seeing The Force Awakens shortly after the complete release of Panic! At The Disco's newest album, "Death of a Bachelor" (of which I own neither, nor do I own any characters involved). This story follows a timeline of about a year, with each chapter serving as a new month, or at least a handful of moments within that month. Additionally, as you'll see, each chapter follows a basic idea constructed from each song from "Death of a Bachelor" (whether following the theme of the lyrics, or the tone of the overall song). The prologue (This Is Gospel, which is set a few years before the main story), a mid chapter, as well as the eventual last chapter will feature songs/themes from "Too Weird To Live, Too Rare To Die". 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> also if Anon - KinkyPeters from wattpad happens to be scrolling through: go fuck yourself! :D

_This is gospel for the fallen ones_  
_Locked away in permanent slumber_  
_Assembling their philosophies  
_ _From pieces of broken memories_

He stands before the window, looking over a grey expanse of city streets and rural, distant neighborhoods; his hands are clasped behind his back, shoulders drawn and head held high.  Beneath the fabric of his three piece and red silk tie, his veins are thrumming under the heavy weight of his own skin, fingers lightly twitching as they grasp and reach for one another. 

At his back stands his employer and new mentor—a garish man well into his elder years with a scar to pucker and pull at the left half of his face, twisting his mouth into a perpetual snarl.  Within the reflection of the glass, he can see a clarity in those large, knowing eyes that hover above his shoulder.  A bone-white hand comes up and curls over his shoulder, fingertips digging into his suit.

“You are almost ready,” a long winded and grumbling stream of words filters into the air, hanging at the curve of his ear.  “What do you think of your growing empire?” 

Regarding the streets once more, he considers his mentor’s question carefully, his shoulder turning to ice as heat pools between his twisting fingers.  He breathes slowly, sweeping a long, lasting look from the high rises near the lakes, across the distant valleys and rolling green of suburbia, into the heart of the lower districts.  Styles and forms shifting, buildings melting into strips and into neighborhoods.  He can see profit, prestige…

Most of all, he regards the knowledge that he is coming into the power to possess domain over _all of it_.  The barest tug at the corner of his mouth prompts him to answer.

“It needs work,” he finally says, eyeing streets with cars he can’t see but knows to be, sitting in the driveways of houses he can picture in the depths of his mind so clearly.  Many changes would need to occur, he tells himself, before it’s perfect.

At his back, Snoke’s warped mouth curls into a smile, the white, skeletal hand lingering on his shoulder.  The ice is spreading across his chest, down the length of his arm and into the heat at his fingertips.  A tremor takes hold, and he straightens further, willing his very spine to comply.

“All in due time, my apprentice,” the older man rasps, his cold leeching further toward the soles of shoes before his hand slips away.  “I understand there are changes to be made, yes?  A new identity is in order.”

“Yes,” he says automatically, resigning himself to soak in the chill, let it harden to steel beneath the desperate beats of warmth hovering over his lungs.  Breathing slowly, he feels it sink lower, claws digging into his core and running him cold.  Another twitch skitters along the length of his spine, running to his heels; he turns, stepping away from the window.

“I suspect you have one, then?”  Snoke insists, lowering himself into a high-back leather chair behind a wide steel and glass desk. 

A smile pulls at his mouth, and the ice and the dark swallow him whole.  “Kylo Ren.”

 

_This is gospel for the vagabonds_  
_Ne’er-do-wells and insufferable bastards_  
_Confessing their apostasies  
_ _Led away by imperfect impostors_


	2. Emperor's New Clothes

_Sycophants on velvet sofas, lavish mansions, vintage wine  
_ _I am so much more than royal—snatch your chain, and mace your eyes  
_ _If it feels good, it tastes good, it must be mine  
_ _Heroes always get remembered—but you know legends never die  
_ _And if you don’t know—now you know  
_ _I’m taking back the crown_

 

Shoes, gleaming under the morning light filtering in through the blinds shading his window, with laces pulled tight and knotted neatly, bows evenly spaced.  The suit is a heavy black, creased appropriately, and hugging in the right places.  The shirt is a dark charcoal, just off-set enough to provide some kind of tonality that he can really care little for.  Red jewels embezzle the cufflinks, glimmering from the wash of a lamp near his wardrobe.

He adjusts the collar of his shirt again, tucking the pointed folds properly in their specified places, smoothing the front of his jacket once more before deciding to button the middle.  His hair is pushed back, waves rolling down the sides of his head before coming into a neat, simple cut around his chin and ears.  Sparing a passing glance over his features, he gives the barest of regards to the width of his nose, the pale pallor of his skin, the birthmarks dotting his cheeks, the shadows under his eyes.

Straightening, his palms trace the path once more down his front, fingers curling under the hem of his jacket to give it one, final tug.  He raises his chin, eyeing himself, tossing his hair from his brow, before sniffling quietly.  The twinge at the tip pauses him, and he wrinkles his nose.  Dabbing the front of it with the back of his knuckle, and dragging faintly, he wonders for a moment what he’ll see along the skin. 

Nothing. 

He sniffs again, swallowing thickly as the gleam of plastic catches his eye on the table nearby.  Clenching his jaw, he glares at it, and then back at his reflection in the mirror.  Reaching over to the table, he flips a switch, and the light is extinguished.

The soles of his shoes make the faintest of whispers against the hardwoods, his shadow melding into the inky hallway as he rounds one, two, and steps out into the front room of his home.  The floors continue, a rich mahogany that vanish around another bend and into a dining and kitchen space he never uses.  Leather sofas and arm chairs dot the open space, a glass table featured in their center with scattered metallic and steel decorative pieces.  Hard objects, sharp edges, sterile and cold. 

He likes it this way.

Crossing the floor, he steps up to a small table bearing his keys and case.  Pocketing the essential opposite his phone, he curls a palm around the handle, lifting it slowly before letting it hang at his side.  Another tilt of the head, a sweep through the front room—the black cushions melting into the walls, a single band of dawn light spilling in from a shaded window in the dining—and he opens the door of his apartment, stepping out into a wide hallway.

The lamps are lit, low and in a pale dandelion color.  He flips the switch on the back of the door before shutting it quietly, the click of the lock satisfying him enough to pull away from the door and toward the lift.  Its wide, silver and steel framed doors shimmer faintly, and his fingers find his phone in his pocket as he nudges the button to go down.  There’s an unread message displayed on the screen, the words clipped and blunt.

 _Car’s out front, waiting_.

That had been ten minutes ago.

It is never his intention to make them wait, but neither does he take the time to apologize for his tardiness.  They, often, don’t ask, anyway.

The lift rings quietly as the doors slide open with a gentle hiss, and Kylo steps into the lift while easing his phone back into the depths of his suit pocket.  He thumbs the lobby button, his reflection a blurred and nearly indistinguishable mess as the doors draw to a close.  The lift trembles lightly, before descending, and Kylo spares a glance at his shoes, his back pressed to a guard rail against the wall.

The foyer and reception desk of the complex are dimly lit and unoccupied, much as he would expect at nearly six in the morning.  His steps are louder on marble than they were on his hardwoods, and Kylo paces himself to the dull thumping of his heart beneath his shirt, readjusting his fingers around the handle before stepping out into the cool winter air.  A gust kicks through his hair, ruffling it faintly, and he squints into the early light before catching sight of the car waiting for him.

Hux’s fire-orange hair is about as conspicuous as his scowl, and while the sight of his coworker is unusual at best, Kylo reserves a hint of a smile for himself as he dips his head, fingers clawing at his collar in a mock adjustment.  He does not meet Hux’s ice blue eyes, nor does he thank the ginger as the door is drawn open.  He’s aware that Hux finds this unreasonably demeaning, but spares the man further insult by pouring salt into the wound.

A few beats pass and the opposite door is opened, with Hux slipping in as easily as a hand into a well-made glove.  Once the door is shut, the car purrs and pulls away from the curb. 

Placing the brief case between his feet, Kylo counts— _one, two, three_ —

“Any particular reason for your twelve-minute delay this morning, Ren?”

Right on cue.

“The shower was warm,” Kylo offers, glancing out the window to watch steel and glass melt by in a tinted blur.

“If you fancy testing my patience, you’d do best to remember Snoke is far less forgiving.”

“If I wanted your forgiveness, I’d get you a fruit basket and write you an apologetic poem.”

“I see your time with us hasn’t bolstered your maturity.”

Kylo turns his head, regarding his counterpart with a cold glare.

“If I remember correctly, I didn’t have to grovel for my position.”

Hux’s lips purse, and he stares ahead.

The ride is quiet, from that moment forward, and Kylo is quietly appreciative of the silence.  Hux could be a competent, and even intelligent, individual, but his personal standards hardly match his own position, and there is an underlying level of a superiority complex that Kylo loves to twist and mangle.  He can still remember when they first met, and their relationship has, perhaps, only worsened.

Dawn trickles and spreads her fingers across the horizon as the car draws up to a large white and black tower, red curtains drawn over many of the mirrors.  Pulling to the curb before stilling, the car purrs for a moment before quieting at once; Kylo’s fingers tremble lightly, before stretching to return to the handle of the case resting against his calf.  Hux’s door opens first, the seat shifting before the framework slams back into place, and Kylo lets out a breath as he exits his own side.

Wind cuts through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he eases the door shut, rounding the back of the car before following Hux up a flight of marble stairs and through the main doors. 

The tower of First Order Incorporate is impressive, undoubtedly, with high vaulted ceilings decorated in wrought iron chandeliers and crystals, the white and black color pallet handsomely accented with heavy red drapery and roses at the front desk.  Speckled marble spans out from the entrance, down the halls, into lifts, up and down flights of stairs, and as far as Kylo can possibly see.  Even after years of entering and exiting this building, there are features to its architecture and design that still leave him in awe. 

But he has little more than a moment to admire a new painting on the far wall before he rounds a pillar and follows Hux up a half-flight of stairs to a set of private lifts, designated for personnel only.  Unlike the ones at his apartment, the framing of these lifts is significantly more elaborate, with mythological detailing in their structure, red glass slotted into the faces of beasts and man alike to serve as eyes.

“Snoke will likely not tolerate our absence,” Hux makes a point to remind Kylo, and the darker haired man stifles his sigh with a bite of his tongue. 

“He is far more patient than you give him credit for,” Kylo breathes, glancing back down into the foyer of the tower before stepping into the lift after Hux.

“You speak of a man you’ve known less than a handful of years.  He has been my employer for well over a decade.  His patience runs appropriately thin when regarded with such disrespect.”

“Then perhaps I’ll persuade him to forgive us,” Kylo insists, lilting his words and applying a thin smile when Hux’s blazing eyes focus in on his own.

“Careful, Ren,” Hux quips, blue eyes narrowing, “that your own boyish nature does not cost you what footing you’ve garnered here.”

The lift rings, and Hux departs before Kylo can edge another word in.

Clenching his jaw, Kylo inhales deeply before stepping out and into another wide, polished hall.   The curtains are drawn, letting only tendrils of morning light filter between the folds, and Kylo’s fingers curl tighter around the leather handle of his brief case.  This walk, these windows and the continued marble flooring are hardly foreign to him, but there is a new discomfort thrumming beneath the surface of his skin, his heartbeat edging just into the realm of concerned.  Hux has never been one to rattle Kylo entirely, but the ginger knows how to slip needles beneath his skin, and bleed caution into his veins.

He passes several doors, fingers brushing and pulling at the hem of his jacket as he approaches heavy steel doors engraved with the borrowed code from another company—another time, really—Kylo knows all too well.  He glances briefly at the text, clenching his jaw as a latch clicks from the other side.  The doors creak faintly, swinging open slowly.

_Through strength, power.  Through power, victory._

A wall of glass meets his gaze, and he glides through the threshold of Snoke’s office.  The city beyond the edge of the building is glowing in the morning wash of yellow and orange, and Kylo allows a breath to pass between his teeth.  To his left is the massive desk of polished steel and shimmering glass, its surface sparkling under the rays of light filtering in from the windows. 

Snoke is already perched in his seat, looking every bit as old and washed out as he had when Kylo had first met him, but there is a kind of rejuvenating enthusiasm in his eyes, the puckered scar twisting the slight smile of his mouth.  Kylo straightens, turning away from the light to cross to the front of the desk where Hux is already waiting, once more, ramrod straight with flaring nostrils. 

“Late again, Kylo Ren,” it’s not a question, nor is it even objectively crucifying; it simply is.

Kylo bows his head, dipping his chin into the front of his tie before returning his mentor’s gaze.  “My apologies, sir.  It won’t happen again.”

“So you say every time,” if Snoke has a genuine sense of humor or calm about him, Kylo is certain he’s never seen it.  He might consider the warped smile to be something relaxing, but Snoke’s tone is entirely flat.

“I’ve called you both this early with news of developments in Coruscant,” Snoke began, allowing no time for additional words or hesitations from either Kylo or Hux.  “Republic has expressed interest in supplying the funds and resources to Alliance; we must dismantle their trust, and foster a greater willingness to supply with us.”

“Would it not be simpler to take Republic’s resources, buy out their stocks and capitalize until they’re forced to comply with our terms?  We have the means.”  Hux interjects, toeing an inch closer to the front of Snoke’s desk.  Kylo glances at him, and says nothing.

“I would not have us be made a black knight so soon,” Snoke’s eyes are hard, unwaveringly cold.  “We have the resources, yes, but if we have intentions of eliminating Alliance, we cannot play our main hand so quickly.”

Swallowing slowly, Kylo meets Hux’s line, tucking a hand into his pocket before placing the briefcase he’s been holding on the glass top.  “Sir, we might still be able to begin investment in Republic’s sponsors.  Coruscant is a central pot of production and profit, and with the right ears turned in our favor, we can move quickly and quietly.”

At his side, Hux’s eyes are dangerously narrowed, his jaw clenched, but Kylo has Snoke’s attention, and that is all he cares for.

“Go on,” the old man rasps quietly, leaning forward some in his leather chair. 

“Coruscant is known for hosting gatherings and social events, and sponsors are constantly looking for new innovative leaders.  They look for people who they believe they can mold for the best profits.  Buying them outright will only serve to weaken our position, or, worse yet, ruin our reputation.  Republic is looking to Alliance because they’re traditional, and they’re likeable.  We need someone to serve an even more appealing offer.”

“And you would be that someone?”  Hux snarls, his pale lip curling.  Let him, Kylo determines. 

“Yes.  I’m still new enough, my face is hardly associated with our constructs.”

“Sir,” Hux breathes, turning away from Kylo.  Snoke’s eyes linger momentarily, before shifting to the ginger’s.  “If I may, Ren has a formidable offer, but his image is known to the public for his family line.  More so, rumors are already circulating regarding his… extracurricular activities—”

Kylo rolls his eyes and clenches his jaw, but a twitch in his neck reminds him of humility.

“—I’m not sure it’s wise to invest a public façade in—”

“And you would better serve that position?  A face _everyone_ knows to be among the forefront of our company?”  Snoke interrupts, standing abruptly from his seat.  Kylo doesn’t even flinch, and from his peripheral he can see Hux remaining just as stoic.  “You will oversee the accounts, the capital as contracts are written and finalized.  That is all.”

Kylo glances at Hux, watching a pulsing vein press to the front of his temple before he turns on a heel and walks away.  The steel doors open with a creak and a hiss, and in moments Hux is gone.

Allowing a moment, Kylo feels the weight release from his shoulders, a breath whispering between his lips as a tender smile twitches at the corner.  However, for all his pride warming within the back of his mind, he cannot ignore the bands of tension twisting in his chest.

“You are troubled,” Snoke says, dipping back down into his chair.  Kylo lets out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding.

“Hux is not entirely wrong,” he admits at last, refusing to meet the older man’s gaze.  “Habits are hard to shake.” 

It serves no one to lie, Kylo knows this.  And Snoke always has a way of learning, of seeing into him and discovering the truth. 

“You’re clear headed enough today, and for that you should be relieved,” Snoke insists, and Kylo nods once, hiding his surprise with a press of tongue to the back of his teeth.  “Your habits are of little concern to me, provided your assets remain useful.”

“They will serve, that I will promise,” Kylo presses, perhaps too enthusiastic to change their focus.  Snoke eyes him, and he stills, confidence straightening his spine and lifting his chin despite his break.  “Discretion of my presence here has served well: I still have many of my old contacts, all of them rather unassuming of my career change.”

“And your family?”

Kylo’s throat closes momentarily, but the words are automatic.  “They will not interfere.  Should anyone raise questions, I will handle it accordingly.”

The smile that plays upon Snoke’s wrinkled lip is strange, and slightly sinister.  “Excellent.  Then the matter is settled.  Hux will manage the technical details, and keep our accounts in order, while you play liaison.  Keep this quiet, though.  I trust your judgement will remain in order when handling contracts.”

Kylo breathes slowly, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.  “By the grace of your training, I will not disappoint you.”

Light shimmers through the window, and a gleam in Snoke’s eye tugs the pedestal from beneath Kylo’s feet ever so slightly.

“We shall see.”

 

_Mortal kings are ruling castles  
_ _Welcome to my world of fun  
_ _Liars settle into sockets  
_ _Flip the switch and watch them run_

 


	3. Victorious

_I’m like a scarf trick, it’s all up the sleeves  
_ _I taste like magic, waves that swallow quick and deep  
_ _Throw the bait, catch the shark, bleed the water red  
_ _Fifty words for murder, and I’m every one of them_

There’s a tumbler in his grasp and a loose, easy smile on his face, eyes hooded in the low lighting of the scene as his hip tucks against the edge of the bar top, shoulders casually swaying in and out from the space of the pale-faced and lanky lad in front of him.  He’s heard enough rumors of the blonde, and cared little for his own discrepancies, to be bothered about the image they paint, because Kylo knows this man is new to the world of business, with the way his eyes are wide and his eager smile broadens, and, though it’s sad to admit he’s stooping so low, this is an easy exchange to make.

He’s only been at this for five minutes and he can already feel the pull he has; confidence is easy enough to fake until its real, and perhaps it’s morally low to feign attraction for someone with a few carefully selected words, but Kylo regards it as necessary.  He knows it comes easy, the darkened and mysterious aesthetic complimented by his wavy hair and rich eyes, and if he’s got it, he’ll flaunt it.  As it is, Mr. Green Eyes is lapping it up like a dog on a hot day, and Kylo takes a tentative sip of his drink as his fingers brush the back of the blonde’s wrist.

He can feel the man shiver, notes the way his pupils widen further in an already dim space, and he swallows slowly.  It’s a simple exchange, really: talk about the politics of their economic structure, illicit a grain of knowledge about _knowing the right people_ to make this all a better place, throw in a line of flirt, talk over a drink or two, flirt again, offer an estimate for information or a percentage of stakes (the least likely, for sure), seal it with a shake or a kiss and call it fucking done.  Kylo’s played these moves so frequently in the last month that it’s a wonder _someone_ hasn’t caught onto his antics.

Finishing the one drink and motioning for a new one, Kylo returns his attention to the man in front of him, whose wide and infatuated smile is sweeter than sugar and makes his goddamn teeth ache.  A new glass is slipped into the curl of his fingers and he rolls his head back, looking down at this blonde who has stepped closer, the space between them warm and heavy.  He brings the tumbler to his lips and drinks, raising a brow as a wash of light passes briefly over their shoulders.

There’s a passing of words, and Kylo smirks, dipping his mouth to the edge of an ear.  The technical vernacular that passes between his teeth is so rehearsed it sounds real, concealing tenets of a darker reality.  This man has been looking to Alliance, and Kylo is assuring a better stance, a better _profit_ for everyone; _Alliance has good intentions, but they handle their affairs poorly.  Among its front runners bears the reputation of smuggling.  That’s not the kind of association a budding and promising man of business like yourself wants_.

Pretty little half-truths, really.

The blonde’s eyes flutter.  If nothing else, Kylo will sway him with seduction alone.

Coming from a family of business and politics, these kinds of arrangements are rather simple for Kylo; his mother, having been a politician for most of her adult half, had done well to keep him aware and informed of negotiation tactics, and the means with which to handle contacts and potential allies with grace and care, while his grandmother—bless her, and his late grandfather—had been the nation’s president.  He could have asked for no better preparation, even if he’s using his youth and appeal more than diplomacy.

Kylo shoulders the blonde’s half-drunken lean, curling the corner of his mouth into what he aims to be a smile before reaching into his pocket, pulling a sleek black card from its depths.  He turns his head, brushing his lip against the man’s temple before murmuring once more in his ear, passing the card into the blonde’s white and languid grasp.  A quiet laugh purrs from the man’s lips as Kylo begins to pull away, some half-assed excuse of needing just a moment and that he’ll be right back.  The poor sod will likely think Kylo’s given him a personal number, a means through which to get into contact.

The number, truthfully, belongs to Snoke’s office, where his mentor will be waiting patiently tomorrow for yet another call, another desperate resource to be purchased and swindled into the wings of the First Order through Snoke’s delicate phrasing.  Kylo has yet to learn of someone speaking with Snoke and turning him down.

Passing round the edge of the bar, he slips a bill to the tender dressed a black vest and a red tie, before disappearing under a dark threshold and out into the city.

 

* * *

 

“There is still ground to be made,” Snoke offers one morning, a grey light spreading like a mist across the angular office.  Kylo straightens in his seat, lips pursed as he glances across at Hux and Phasma, his fingers restlessly tapping against the edge of the table.  They ignore him.  “We’re breaking even with some contacts, but the general consensus of the Republic is still favoring investing in Alliance.  We’re not moving fast enough.”

Hux spares Kylo one quick glance, piercing like ice through his core.

Kylo clenches his jaw, breathing deeply. 

Their shareholders were becoming impressive enough with their gains from First Galactic Industries and the Trade Federation, but Kylo knows of Alliance’s blossoming business with its own stocks being shared amongst lower level affiliates such as The Institute of Imperial Science, and the National Association of Botany, Organics, and Osmosis—N.A.B.O.O., as it is often referred to.  Given that Alliance’s recent focus has been turned to developing greener energies, having these two in their pockets is more than enough.  Republic still holds a considerable handful of contributors, and it is no secret that they hold an irrefutable sway over the nation.

He’s done his best, and Kylo knows this—and he knows that Snoke is aware of his efforts, maybe even proud of them.  But the reality remains that they _are_ _not_ making enough ground.  Chewing the inside of his cheek, Kylo straightens his shoulders, feeling a bubble of tension pop within the back of his neck as he looks to his mentor and employer.

“Through Trade Federation, I can make some ground with organizations outlying in neighboring states—Mustafar Institute has recently made a shift in their productions, looking for methods of cleaner emission.  Alliance is employing green organizations, and Mustafar knows they can’t compete with their current plans, and soon they’ll shift tactics.  If we offer a partnership—just enough to catch their interest to join us—we can break ground as far as presence is concerned, as well as profit.”

It’s something, he thinks, and so far Hux and Phasma have said little on the matter.  Snoke raises a brow, the wrinkles deepening into his large forehead as he considers Kylo’s recommendations.  Still, there’s a glint in his eye that reads unimpressed, and Kylo’s fingers twitch against the table’s surface again. 

“I doubt focusing on the same tactics Alliance is incorporating into their campaigns is wise,” Hux decides at last, turning his attention toward the head of the table.  “We need a separate approach, to catch the eye of the public as well as the interest of other investments and shareholders.  The people will consider us copycats, riding on the coattails of the Alliance.  If we wish to be a leading force of profit and business, we need to pave our own way.”

Snoke’s lips purse, the lines and faded skin that plasters the left half of his cheek and jaw pulling, wrinkling painfully into the corner of his mouth.  “A commendable approach.  Phasma?”

The blonde raises her glance first to Kylo, who only catches her eye for a brief moment before she regards Snoke, inhaling slowly.  “Both suggestions have their merit.  Regardless of which we do first, I suggest we act quickly with the latter.  Mustafar is a strong company, in need of refinement—we could provide them the temporary resources for said refinement before pulling them into our collection.  Meanwhile, we can still continue investing in other, separate companies.”

Kylo feels his heart press to the front of his ribs, and he turns his attention to Snoke.  “I know some people at Mustafar—they worked with my grandfather.  They’d be easy to reach—”

“And let your personal affection get in the way?”  Hux interrupts, his gaze narrowing as Kylo’s jaw clenches.  “No.  You’d be better continuing your playboy charade where you’re most effective.  Your presence at Mustafar’s plants will likely gain unwanted attention from Alliance—specifically your family.”

Kylo says nothing, feeling a twisting in his gut that is both painful and humiliating. 

“Hux and Phasma will go to Mustafar,” Snoke settles, his bony pale fingers gathering the papers in front of him, shuffling them into a neat stack that he taps against the table with each word.  “Kylo will seek out new contacts.”

The gleam in Hux’s eye paints Kylo’s vision a light red.

 

* * *

 

He’s home one night, pacing the floor of his living room at a quarter past two-AM with loose fitting lounge pants and socks that are threatening to slip off the curves of his heels.  There’s a pounding in his temples as shaking fingers filter and slip through the weave of his hair, pulling lightly as his chest constricts.

Everything is hot and tight and there’s a layer of sweat filming between his brows, and Kylo shakily drops down into the leather armchair tucked nearest to the window.  Gnashing his teeth, he curls into a ball, the air around him palpitating like a vibrating string, and he’s all too aware of the car alarm down the street, the sound of his own breath between trembling lips.

Stars dance in front of his eyes before he realizes he’s digging his knuckles against the corners, sweat mingling with tears.  He thinks he hears a whisper of a voice, quiet and kind and singing a lullaby from his childhood.  Bleary and choking through mouthfuls of air that feel like water, he glances at the clock again.

Two-twenty-nine-AM.

 

* * *

 

It’s an hour into this open event and Kylo has contemplated resigning himself to an unsuccessful evening as he finishes the last of his drink.  Amber warmed from his palm slides effortlessly, burning mildly, and a dampness at his nose prompts him to dab it nonchalantly before checking the napkin quickly.  There’s nothing, and he lifts his gaze to see _her_.

She’s crossing the threshold of the scene’s warehouse doors, light washing over her skin as though the glow of heaven aims to grace her.  She’s wearing a chiffon dress, blue and purple tones draping themselves over her shoulders, down her arms, ruffling lightly around her thighs as a large, loose black bow decorates her throat.  Brown hair is pulled back into a careful bun, a braid twisting into a crown round her temples and into the knot.  Lips a pale red, her eyes scan the space, rich and deep.

Kylo is thankful, for a moment, in the back of his mind that his glass had at least made it to a position over the table top before it unceremoniously falters from his fingers and clatters.  The noise is little more than breath beneath the roar of voices and music, and even he disregards it immediately once the moment has passed.  Another strobe of white light caresses her figure, shadows casting along the lines of her legs and forearms, and he’s taken with a quick glimpse of her physique.

Swallowing thickly, he stands from his place in the sunken seating, pulling away from the throng of bodies that he has been previously immersed in—as best as he could given the dull conversation and weaker drinks.  Adjusting the button of his jacket, Kylo weaves through the crowds, a gentle thrumming beneath his veins that he figures must be part powder, part fascination, for he hasn’t felt this kind of a surge all night, and he’s certainly indulged in his habits more than once already.

She’s walking away from the doors, her arm brushing the sleeves of two men on either side of her: one has thick, wavy dark locks with the kind of smile pulling at his lips that suggests a confidence both easy and alluring, skin kissed a light brown—he seems vaguely familiar; the other is darker, with a wide mouth that grins bright, shoulders square and dressed in a brown leather jacket.  Even with these figures on either side of her—equal and protecting—she is regal, and undoubtedly their center of gravity.

And orbit, they do—he keeps a comfortable distance to observe, noting how her boys never stray far from her, never leave her in a position where she is the outer.  She remains their vertex, no matter how their stances shift and change, and Kylo is almost infuriated by the way her light seems shielded from him by their constant circling.

He’s forced to tear his eyes away momentarily as someone comes to him, passing little more than incessant noise as political chatter, and he gives an occasional hum or word to maintain some semblance of interest, wishing desperately for another drink, another chance to get away and qualm the erratic beating under his jacket with the grains left over inside his pocket.  Yet this person—ah, an entrepreneur?  Dull—has a hand on his arm and turning him away, toward the crowd, sweeping and gesturing some big picture Kylo can’t even fathom because he doesn’t fucking care.  For even when he isn’t looking for her, can’t even see her, there’s a glow in his peripheral, a tug at the corner of his eye and in the depth that tells him _she’s over there, she’s over there, she’s over there_ —

What _is_ this?

He evades a question, feigns a spell of thirst and emptily promises a steadfast return before peeling his shoulder from the talons he’d rather break backwards, and melts back into the crowd.  It takes little time to see that she’s down at the end of the counter, boy-wonder-one-and-two shouldering her between their broad frames.  He sees this, her arms folded on the bar before her, and he wants to reach across the entire hall, wrench them away from her, and tell her to be free to spread her wings.

Blinking slowly, Kylo tears himself away, hesitating against a column near the middle of the space, his trembling fingers seeking purchase around the sharp corner of it as he breathes.  His heart flutters into the base of his throat as he fumbles once more with the button of his jacket, popping it free.  He’s hot, the excuses for a drink suddenly becoming a reality as he inhales shakily.  Should’ve stopped at one, he chastises himself, licking the corner of his mouth slowly. 

He rounds the column once he’s sure his feet can support himself, feeling a tug to look back to her place at the counter. 

What _even_?

Crossing passed the pit and up to the counter’s edge once more, he slips onto a padded leather stool before motioning to a woman in a short sleeve with sleeves of heavy ink.  She’s already served him tonight, and she makes quick work of passing him another drink, this one topped to the brim.  With a still hand and his lower lip pressing to the rim, the top layer of the drink disappears between his teeth as his eyes wander back down the line of the bar.

Her smile is radiant, lips full and wide and there’s a melody that floats along the space between them to hum around his ears.  Gnawing his lip, Kylo tosses the bit of hair hanging in front of his face before bringing the glass to his lips once more, not even blinking to drink her in as he swallows.  His gaze sweeps, taking in the length of her fingers around a tumbler of her own delights, her nails a glittering shade of pink to match the tone of her dress.  The lights of the bar bathe her skin, a glow shimmering around her hair, honeying the curve of her braid.

Kylo wonders, in that moment and as he had when she walked in, who this girl is.  By no means is this establishment restricted to any one particular class of people, but she is far more casual than some of the others he’s seen and spoken with tonight, yet a thousand times more beautiful and electrifying than those he might have contemplated seducing before. 

She is so bright, he tells himself, finishing another mouthful of whiskey, when her head turns, and her eyes meet his.

By hell, heaven, and all of the stars, he knows he’s in trouble.

Her eyes are deep, rich and brown and remind him of his mother’s—far too wise and yet so young.  Her cheeks are high, her face so delicately shaped he wonders what it might be like to hold her, to sweep his thumbs below her eyes and trace the bridge of her nose to the fullness of her lips.  And he’s too caught up, too enamored and critical of the fact that he’s incredibly high and incredibly taken by her to realize that her ensemble have turned as well, matching pairs of hawk-eyes narrowing.

Kylo, knowing all too well that this may not end quite in his favor, returns his focus to the woman, winking as a smirk toys at the corner of his mouth.  She raises an eyebrow, but her own smile lingers, and he finishes his drink before turning away. 

 

 _My touch is black and poisonous, and nothing like my punch-drunk kiss_  
_I know you need it, do you feel it?_  
_Drink the water, drink the wine_


	4. Crazy Equals Genius

_You’re so normal that you just disappear_  
_You’re so straight like commuters with briefcases towing the line  
There’s no residue of a torturer inside of your eyes_

It’s a dangerous game to play, to flicker and flirt at the edges of the scenes scooping in prospective business partners and shareholders week in and week out.  But Snoke has him dancing double-time to make up for those he let slip through his fingers last month, and he knows better than to disappoint now when they’re making the progress that they are.  They’ve gained three new partnerships, more profits to sustain their work and spread their influence.  Dipping fingers into science and arts and extending their reach to the outer cities and borderlines, it’s only a matter of time before Republic shifts their focus away from Alliance.

The nation is in the midst of a flux, Snoke tells him one day as the two glide past the windows bearing witness to the city bathed in heavy rains.  “It’s not often such superpowers are able to maintain a presence so long without one conquering the other, and we must make absolute certain that it is _our_ corporation which reigns supreme.  After all, we have the most to offer, the most to give these people.  We just need to _show_ them.”

Pretty words, Kylo knows, but they resonate deep within him, their tone familiar from days long since passed.  He remembers a different time, when his youth complimented his naivety, and he’d sat between his grandparents during luncheons in Coruscant.  The conversations are faded in the back of his mind, and when he pictures his grandfather’s face, there’s a twist in his heart that leaves a bad taste on his tongue, and an itch in his fingers.

Long before his time, Padmé Amidala had been the nation’s president—perhaps one of the best, brightest, and most virtuous in her diplomatic ideals.  She’d served early in her years, had once made a passing remark about her naivety when compared to her service, but despite all of that she had loved her position with all her heart.  She’d told him of the challenges, of the rewards, of the things she wanted to change and the work she was able to do.  She’d inspired him in his youth to be bigger and better than anything he could dream.

 _Are you proud of me, grandmother_ , Kylo wondered that day with Snoke, watching the grey clouds roll, _are you happy?_

All his life, Kylo has only ever wanted to do something worth his family name, and to be accepted.  Not that his childhood, by any means, was without love, but it was not without complications or loneliness.  Perhaps his greatest friend, most profound influence, was within his grandfather, Anakin.  He remembers, briefly, being young and wide eyed at Anakin’s side, drinking in stories of war and politics, and Kylo feels a deep and lingering cold swimming through his soul; he swallows thickly, a tightness closing his throat, before shoving the memory aside.  Yes, Grandfather had been everything to him.

 _He still is_.

Everything he’s done, everything step on his own path, has been for the sake of his late grandfather.  The man had been a war hero—a pilot, much like his uncle and his father, though undoubtedly the best in generations.  Anakin had been a man of many opinions and reservations, but often felt compelled, by one force or another, to keep such to himself in the face of the public.  Where Kylo has always felt emotional, temperamental in his swings, Anakin had been a beacon of calm, and Kylo idolized such power immensely as a boy.

Turning his head to see the city’s center, cars crawling in the flooding streets as thunder rumbles outside, Kylo allows a small breath to fill his chest, his shoulders aching from last night’s poor sleep, as Snoke comes close to his left side.  The man radiates power and something akin to death—cold, demanding, and unforgiving.  Perhaps, once, it might have frightened Kylo, but those days are long gone, and he’s growing confident in his own game.

“It will not be like this forever,” Snoke assures him, his hands hidden away in the pockets of his trousers.  Kylo dips his head, clenching his jaw before facing his mentor.  Snoke’s eyes are distant, but full of something Kylo can’t quite describe.  “When we hold sovereignty, things will fall into place as you’ve dreamed.”

Kylo purses his lips, mulling over his words.  Yes, he’s dreamed of many beautiful things in the years serving and prospering at Snoke’s side: the uprooting of their systems in favor of more egalitarian practices, no matter the means of achieving them.  His grandmother had been on a path of peace through diplomacy, but he can remember his grandfather’s words, sharp and poignant in their dismissal—diplomacy only worked in the favor of those bent on maintaining the status quo.  It was a time, a new era, for a radical shift in thinking, one that Padmé could not have comprehended in her years, let alone performed. 

It was not a pretty path, certainly, and Kylo’s already swallowed the sour aftertaste of lies and deception with whiskey time and time again, but he knows this is right.  He knows that the world is ready, almost demanding, of something to teeter and tip it down the river to something _better_.  He knows for all his mother’s work that she has good intentions, but poor efficiency for change.  _Talking_ , he reminds himself, with flashes of late nights and screaming and shouting and glass breaking taking precedence behind his eyes, _does not always help_.

But there’s an edge in Snoke’s tone that causes Kylo to hesitate before asking, “Sovereignty…  Over the state?  The nation?  Anything larger requires schemes much grander than we’ve presently established.” 

There’s a shift in his mentor’s posture, his look, and Kylo, in a short moment, is grateful that Snoke’s scarring is not on the right side of his face.  “In due time, my apprentice.  For now, our focus is to remain on gathering shareholders, bolstering our resources.  Once Republic is under our wing, their profits ours to delegate, then we will broaden our horizon.”

Something tickles the back of Kylo’s throat, and he wonders how wide Snoke’s present horizons are.

“And what of now?  My endeavors are producing thinner results weekly,” Kylo continues, a nervousness pulling at his mouth as he wets the corner with his tongue.  “Hux is breathing down my neck about no longer pulling my weight.”

“I’m aware of his disposition regarding your work, Ren,” Snoke insists, shuffling away from the window.  Kylo drags a hand over his left elbow and forearm, massaging slowly.  “He is a man who leads well from behind the scenes, but fancies the action of the front, and therefore is jealous of your opportunities.  Pay him little heed; he has his purpose, and you have yours.  You will continue your work, building our relations and gaining influence beyond those of larger corporations.  Soon, I’ll send you further out, until we can break national ground.”

Kylo bows his head in response, grateful as pride swells in his heart. 

 

* * *

 

And he works, and works. 

He feels as though he’s wearing himself down to the bone, hitting new scenes, new parties of grassroots organizations when he’s exhausted the mainstream names, and swaying their frontrunners to the cause of the First Order, to the influence for the good of the nation.  He thinks often of his words, how he incorporates his vision of a better nation—a better world, really; his desires to reshape the political focus and turn the economic tides into the favor of those who _truly_ need it.  They’re always so eager, he notices, to lap up his speeches with their fingers toying at their drinks and their eyes flickering along his frame. 

There’s always this fleeting hesitation pulling at his gut when he catches their glances, a kind of surprise pulling at his tongue and silencing him even as his mouth compensates into a smile.  He acknowledges them with a small toss of his hair and a glint in his eye that he knows makes knees buckle and drinks slosh.  It’s for show, it’s for the sake of his position, but he can’t help wonder at times if the reason Snoke puts him here at the front line is because people _swoon_.

He gains six new partnerships in the time between his personal meeting with Snoke and the encroaching end of the month.  Rains have turned to slush and almost-snow and the season of red and pink have long since melted into green and clovers, and quite frankly Kylo knows he doesn’t need a reason to binge drink when he’s out on a job, but he does it anyway in the “spirit of the holidays”. 

The trouble, though, is that Kylo becomes aware of is the reputation his work is creating; if not vaguely recognized as the prodigal son of Organa and Solo, and of the Skywalker line (thankfully, there are less and less approaching him about this), he’s becoming known as the seductive force of the year, twisting hearts and ears of grassroots to multi-billion dollar companies left and right into the tide of a new, politically empowered powerhouse (again, thankfully, unnamed for most records; if Snoke is good for one thing, it’s keeping their titles and affiliations mostly under wraps).  It’s not uncommon for him to enter a space, to scan the scene, and to be near immediately spotted by _someone_.

On the one hand, it makes his position relatively easy.  People are coming to _him_ , they’re asking him the questions, clamoring for his attention instead of the other way around.  All the same, there’s a kind of apprehension that lingers like smog around anyone who isn’t a journalist of some sort.  It’s with a skilled hand that he filters through those worth his time and those who are, in kindest terms, not.

Even still, he cannot deny himself the reality that, whenever he steps into any established space, he’s searching, letting his mind and gaze wander, desperate for that pull, that light, that beacon of _her_.

 _She_ has been, interestingly, at the forefront of every dream, every thought.  It’s been nearly a month since he’s last seen her and yet the image of her smile never fades from his conscious.  The soft melody of her laugh still tickles at his ears, and sometimes when he’s coming down from a high he thinks he hears her, and his heart races, and he searches and searches and becomes so fucking discouraged when it dawns on him that he’s paced his apartment five times at three in the morning and her voice is _only_ in his fucking head.

And yet, good graces, he wouldn’t—can’t, really—have it any other way.  The gleam of her eyes, the tint of her lips, every inch of her that he remembers is somehow rooted to the soles of his being and he wonders how he’d ever felt grounded before this moment, this point in his life where he can live and breathe knowing he’s seen something absolutely _perfect_.

And damn it _all_ , does he want her.

 

* * *

  _You can set yourself on fire, but you're never gonna burn_

 

At night he cannot sleep, his head is spinning with the end of a high that is leaving his heart aching in the depths of his throat as a heavy tingling lingers beneath his skin.  He itches to touch, to roll helplessly in his sheets as desire burns his core, but his fingers and palms are useless, and there are only so many images he can conjure in the depths of his mind before they’re all boring and entirely unhelpful.  The hum of longing that festers in his gut and hips occasionally pulls a stifled gasp from his lips, leaving him choked and starving before he clings to his pillows just hard enough for the moment to pass.

Trembling fingers curl into the seam of the pillowcases, nails separating the threads until he’s made holes in which to dig and hold onto.  Even then, the gritting of his teeth pains his jaw and the tension that coils in his spine only makes his awareness of _fucking everything_ that much worse.

And then he thinks of red lips and deep brown eyes, and he practically screams into the mattress.

 

_You can set yourself on fire, but you're never gonna learn_

* * *

 

“You look exhausted,” Phasma murmurs gently, stepping into the lift with Kylo.  A breath ghosts between his lips, and he refuses to look at her.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“No need to be crass,” she insists, her thin lips twisting into a lopsided line.  He knows she’s concerned—the focus of her gaze is apparent enough without the way she gives him a once over, no doubt assessing the slump of his shoulders, or the hollowing in his cheeks.  “You went out, again, last night, didn’t you?”

Kylo doesn’t speak, but tilts his head.  Yes.  And he suffered greatly for it, too.

“You should be more careful.  You have a lot of freedoms with the work Snoke asks of you, but you still need to be level-headed—for yourself, more than anyone.” 

Her tone is surprisingly soft, and Kylo sighs again.

“I know,” he concedes, swallowing thickly.  “There are just… too many reasons not to be.”

“I can only imagine,” Phasma replies, folding her hands over one another in front of her.  The sleeves of her suit tug, wide and pale wrists becoming exposed under the incandescent lighting of the lift.  She stands slightly taller than him, her platinum blonde hair so fair it nearly disappears into the pale color of her skin.  She doesn’t look at him for a long while, but when she does, it’s with fondness.  “I say this as a co-worker, and with respect to what you're doing for us: take care of yourself.  We need you sharp, and ready, and that must come before anything else.”

Kylo regards her for a moment, knowing that, in her own way, such compassion would not be shared in the presence of Hux, or Snoke.  But he nods, takes her words into mind, and he makes a silent promise to do his best to remember them.

 

* * *

It’s nearly the final week of the month when he, at last, sees her again.

A dive of a bar at the far end of the city’s center is hardly a place most expect to find Kylo Ren, yet even still he sits perched on a corner seat at the counter, fingers wrapped around a small glass of caramel colored whiskey, a lonely stone of ice sitting heavy at the bottom.  He’s brought the glass to his lips, letting the drink just begin to glide over the flat of his tongue when something tickles at the back of his neck, creeping up into his being.  He shivers, an invisible tether being lightly jerked as he turns his head towards the wash of light from the opening front door, and he sees her bathed in an early-spring glow.

Her hair is pulled back into an array of buns, wisps curling around her face and bouncing lightly near her ears.  The door swings shut behind her and only the lighting of the bar is left to illuminate her high cheekbones and full lips.  She is without makeup—at least without any heavy enough for him to see across the space between them—but she is just as captivatingly beautiful.  Her dark eyes sweep the room, passing over him without recognition until they fixate to a figure some twenty feet down the bar from him.

All at once, they narrow, and her jaw clenches, and there’s a twist in Kylo’s gut that says he should be thanking his stars that such a gaze is not presently focused on him.  He looks, seeing a heavy man with black and grey hair slicked back behind his ears with a pint in hand, and the woman moves in a blur through his peripheral before her hand is curling at the cuff of the man’s jacket. 

Kylo’s mouth dries as she pulls him from his seat, the man’s legs stumbling to support his swaying body as the stool is knocked from beneath him.  There’s a hush of voices, and the man’s drink fumbles in the air before clattering to the floor, something Kylo can only assume is cheap spraying across oaken floorboards.  The woman is fuming, her shoulders tight as her hands curl into fists. 

“You skipped out on your payments, Teedo.”

Oh, if her laughter had been a melody, the voice to support her words is a score, complete and full.  Her accent reminds him of those in the loftier areas of Coruscant—the capital, of course, being home to many backgrounds and languages—but her simple attire begs more of a southern city like Tatooine or Jakku in the deep beige cargo pants and an off-white tank ripped at the shoulders.  Light cuts into her sculpting, and she is both terrifying and inspiring, where in her dress from so long ago she had been nothing but angelic.

Kylo forgets entirely of his drink, and turns to watch her handle the gruff looking man who is all but trembling before her.

“Credit’s been tight, I’ve been meaning to call in and talk to the old man—”

She’s turned away from him now as this man—Teedo?—is shifting away from her.  “We’re long past that, now.  You owe us for the repairs we did, and you owe us now.”

Teedo steps back again, his eyes wavering amongst the crowd.  Kylo slides forward some on his stool, giving her another glance; her hair is thick in the knots pulled at the back of her head, her body thin and toned, the slightest curve of hips filling the low waist of her pants.  She’s tall—taller than Teedo, for certain—for most women of her stature, but Kylo can only imagine that, were he beside her, he would tower her.

“I just need more time—”

“You don’t _have_ any, Teedo.”  She advances, reaching for Teedo.

For someone so large, Teedo is not a graceful or imposing individual.  But Kylo can assume, all at once, that he’s a man who fights dirty, for he knocks a stool in front of the woman’s path, clamoring for a pint glass to aim and hook against the side of her head.  But she—oh, marvelous as she is—is quick and agile, and ducks beneath the brute’s wild sling.  Pale liquid sloshes and sprays into the crowd of people gathered, and she immobilizes Teedo’s arm, slamming her fist across the front of his mouth. 

Standing, Kylo takes a step, enthralled at the fight spilling out before him as Teedo stumbles back into the counter, sputtering as he rears and kicks at her, catching her thigh and knocking her away.  A flare of white hot tension coils and burns in Kylo’s gut, and he lunges forward again, red tickling at the corners of his vision.  But then she’s up, and fiery as ever, and as Teedo swings for her again she dips under his arm, clocking him above the ear with her elbow.  Her foot kicks into the back of his knee, and Teedo falls with a heavy thud that rattles beneath Kylo’s feet.

There’s a dull roar of voices to fill the ringing space of Teedo’s collapse, and the woman is huffing slightly, a tinge of sweat sticking the curls near her ears against her skin.  Kylo, having advanced through the crowd some, is but a handful of feet away when she waltzes around Teedo, sifting through his pockets in search of a leather wallet.  No one stops her, and Kylo certainly would object to anyone trying, as she filters through it.  He hears her curse, throwing the wallet back to let it thump against Teedo’s back, before she stands.

The tether that thrums in the back of his mind seems momentarily calm, and she’s looking away from him while thumbing through the contents of her cell phone—and older thing, with a small crack in the screen—when she stops.  Swallowing slowly, Kylo wonders if he should slip away, let the crowd swallow him whole and retreat back to his place.

But her head turns, her eyes roaming before they lock with his, and he ignores all pretense of wanting to leave this spot, or this moment.

Kylo is aware of the metaphor people love to use when seeing someone desirable—the notion of the world melting away at the edges, leaving just _that_ person and every fascinating detail about them.  He’s never given it much consideration, as such idle fancies are often regarded as weak.  In his position, he certainly can’t afford distractions like this; he knows if Snoke, or even Hux, were here now, he’d be reprimanded at once.

But they’re not here.  It’s only her, and him, and a throng of people who are moving like waves of a sea—undefined around them, returning to their socialization now that the excitement has passed.

So close like this, her eyes are even more intense than he could have imagined, deep and rich in their color as they absorb the yellowing light of the bar.  Her lips are full, a gentle pink against the cream of her skin.  There is a slight kiss of sun across the bridge of her nose and the highness of her cheeks, a few faint freckles decorating her skin like stars in a night sky.  Her shoulders are broad, the peaks of her collarbones pressing to the fabric of her shirt, the slight curve of her breasts complimenting the gentle shape of her body.

She is so much smaller, as he had previously predicted.

Yet she is strong, so strong, and her hands are relaxed at her sides—fingers nimble, knuckles rough at the edges.  There are stains dotting her knees and thighs that look like oil and grease, and the work boots laced around her feet and ankles leave him assuming she is a mechanic of sorts.  She looks nothing like the woman he’d seen so long ago, and yet she is just as radiant, just as bright and beautiful and perfect and—

And he realizes he’s staring, soaking her every inch in like a man dying to breathe when those lips pull into a small smile.  There’s a crinkle at the corner of her eye, something there glimmering and twisting his heart as that tether burns hot, searing into his consciousness and somewhere deeper.  She winks, and turns away to leave him alone in the heaviness of the bar.

 

 _Darling you know how the wine plays tricks on my tongue_  
_But you don’t seem to change  
_ _When you stuff all your feelings with drugs_


	5. Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who's left comments/kudos. You're all incredibly wonderful, and a huge driving force for me, and I am super thankful for each and every one of you. <3 Bless you all.

_You should’ve seen what I wore—I had a cane and a party-hat_  
_I was the king of this hologram where there’s no such thing as getting out of hand_  
_Memories tend to just pop up, drunk pre-meds and some rubber gloves_  
_Five thousand people with designer drugs  
_ _Don’t think I’ll ever get enough_

Someone’s calling for shots, and Kylo fancies an idea that he might be in trouble.

Even still, there’s a glass being pushed into his hand—a double, by the weight of it—as another claps his back and pushes him forward.  The drink spills slightly over the edge, and Kylo presses back and tosses it in a single swallow.  It burns, but slides smooth once it passes his tongue, and there’s a cheer that erupts around him and explodes between his eyes.

The edges of his vision blur faintly, and Kylo grits his teeth before slamming the end of the shot glass onto the counter.  The sound earns him another cheer, a few rounds of applause.  The line of light sparkling off empty bottles and tumblers on the bar top blinds him temporarily, the number of them melting together until they shimmer like a kaleidoscope.  Sweat is sticking his hair to the back of his neck, and he licks at the corner of his mouth.

Bodies brush and push him against the bar top, and at one point he’s knocked so violently that his hands scramble to protect his face before he eats the grain of the counter.  Voices mingle with shouts, people calling for drinks and clinking their delights above his head.  He breathes slowly, sitting up straight again.  Someone says something to him, but he doesn’t distinguish the words from the white noise spilling into his head, and he slides off the barstool.

Had the day not been so shitty, he likely wouldn’t be here.  But the reality is the day _had_ been shitty, and so he _is_ here.  And there’s a part of him that would like to regret it, but the urge for another shot suppresses that silliness.

Even still, he hears a condescending tone tickle the shell of his ear, buzzing incessantly long after he’s twitched, scratched at it, and shoved it away. 

He fumbles down to the opposite end of the bar where there are less people, some aspect of the stillness and the quiet appealing him as he haphazardly waves down a man in a black vee-neck and slacks.  He opens his mouth, intending to speak, knowing very well exactly what he wants and insisting that he’s not too drunk for it.  But the man looks at him cross, shakes his head, and walks away, and Kylo wants to have the energy to shout, but he simply can’t.

He just…

Can’t.

 

* * *

 

He tries to do right, to be good, to do the things he’s set out to do.  He wants to make his mentor proud, and move forward with the accomplishments of First Order.  He has to.  He’s a promise to keep to himself, to his grandparents, to his pride.

But it’s so easy to do, almost, anything else.  It’s so easy to just say _fuck it_.  Even easier when he carries the bottle to let it rest against the empty pillow nearest his head.

The mornings become harder, even as the days become longer and rainier than they were when all of this began.  He clamors to hold onto the vision he’s held in his heart for years, of doing the work that his grandmother couldn’t, creating the world that his grandfather fought for.  He wants them— _needs_ them, really—to be proud, even if they can’t be here to revel in all that he has been able to do.

But, by the grace of everything he yearns for, that want, the need, is becoming almost impossible to hold on to. 

The late nights are bad enough, with the feverish dreams, and the brief withdrawals between coming down and waking up in the morning, that anything else beyond that realm is almost inconsiderate.  The nosebleeds are coming frequently, the itching and twitching and creeping sensation of panic that skitters across his shoulders before clawing and digging into his very being takes hold more often than not, now.  It’s harder to breathe, it’s difficult to think, and half of his days he fancies just curling into a ball with his habits and kissing the fucking world goodbye.

Those are the days that he longs for soothing hands to smooth his hair back, for an open embrace to rock him into a sense of security, and the low, if not flat, tone of a baritone voice to lull him to sleep as though he were still a child.

Sometimes he wonders if this is how he’ll go.  If he’ll collapse, dressed to the nines from a day of work, with a bottle in one hand, an empty bag of white in the other, and the lifelong sorrow he’s carried on his face.

 

* * *

 

It’s raining when he falls into bed, stomach swollen with too much whiskey and his nose burning around the edges from perhaps one too many lines—a less than ideal combination, but it’s a place he’s been before and has learned to maneuver.  The palpitations of his heart leave him breathless, sweat rolling in beads down into his hairline as he tosses and rolls over.  His stomach flops opposite, and he lunges to the edge, coughing hard and deep to the point that his toes are curled, his fingers clawing at his chest, and there are tears streaming from the corners of his eyes.

At last as his breath comes in short, startled gasps, Kylo rolls onto his side, his hair curtaining his face.  Everything aches from his face to his feet, and there’s a thrumming that buzzes beneath his skin, pulling twitches from his limbs.  He presses his face into the pillow, breathing slowly between his teeth.  His heartbeat bounces along his veins, pulsing in his palms, behind his knees, thrumming so hard against his gut he feels it in his hips and thighs and he wonders how hard he’ll have to work to make this stop and feel somewhat _decent_.

Grimacing as another wave of nausea threatens him, he turns his head to breathe fresher air, his eyes scanning the dark as a flash of lightning flares behind him through the window.  He winces, pursing his lips, before focusing on one of his socks that had been discarded from the day before.  A thin thing, wadded up against the wall, but the light caught it and illuminated the rich tone of brown, and Kylo sucks in another breath when his heart quivers.

Of course he sees her eyes, bright and rich and deep, ready to devour and swallow him whole.  He hasn’t seen her lately, wonders what she could be doing on this storming night.  The last time had been at that bar, and she’d… well, she’d kicked ass, is what she’d done.  And she recognized him, and smiled, before leaving him exactly as he’d left her that first time.

He doesn’t know her name.

Biting his lip, Kylo eases himself onto his back, certain now that his stomach has ended its acrobatic performance long enough for him to inhale deeply.  His head is pounding lightly, focused between his eyes and at his temples, but he forces the knots in his shoulders to abate, to let his legs straighten out until he knows his ankles are just mere inches from the edge of his bed.  His heart presses to the front of his chest, and he skims his fingers over it, feeling it flutter.

Letting his eyes close, he imagines her face: the high cut of her cheeks, the full bow of her lips, the wonder of her eyes, the way her absolute everything lights up when she laughs and smiles, the furrow of her brows when she’s angry.  All this he’s seen from two chance observations, and it just pains him that, for all his work and his charm and everything Snoke’s had him do to everyone else in this goddamn city, he hasn’t turned to her in the same fashion.

And he believes it would be easy— _stars_ , it would probably be too easy—to sway her.  He’s pulled people far firmer than she could possibly be under his wing with a handful of words and a suggestive smile.  Something tickles in his chest, likes tantalizing fingers drawing his center to somewhere darker and warmer, and he sees her in the black of his imagination, wearing that chiffon dress with her hair in the braid, but the fierceness in her eyes from the bar. 

 _She is beautiful_ , he tells himself, his tongue ghosting over the lower curve of his lip as his fingers brush the band sitting snug at his waist. 

_Stars, she’s beautiful…_

It’s simple enough to paint her behind his eyes.  And he can see her in so many things, so many shades of dark and washes of light, and he wonders how she might look casual, dressed up, half-asleep and draped in one of his more comfortable shirts.  All of this is, well, pleasing, and a smile pulls at his mouth as he shifts, and his subconscious changes her again.

In his mind he sees her, standing before him with that careful smirk, her eyes watching him as his palms come to her face.  Kylo imagines that her skin is soft here, the lines of her jaw sharp and defined even as the expanse of her throat is smooth, pliable beneath his fingers as he presses enough to earn a quiet gasp.  Her eyes flutter, and when he kisses her, he tastes nothing.

Buzzing from his high, Kylo’s fingers skate across his own skin, and his image of her molds from something cheeky and chaste to… well… _oh_ …

He gasps in the dark of his room, painting her image in the depths of his subconscious as something entirely otherworldly—unmarred skin and waves of brown hair that cascade around her shoulders, the ends just barely covering her small breasts.  And she is so beautiful, and so wanton with flushed cheeks and parted lips and his hands are touching and caressing _every_ inch of her.  She is saying his name, first in delicate whispers until his teeth capture a nipple and then she’s crying out, and though her hands are raking along his back, the sensation is void.

He comes, then, sitting upright as thunder shakes his window.  Breathless, Kylo glances down at the mess he’s made of his shorts, the sweat sticking to his skin, and if he feels anything, it surely isn’t satisfied.

 

* * *

 

 _Champagne, cocaine, gasoline_  
_And most things in between_  
_I roam the city in a shopping cart  
_ _A pack of camels and a smoke alarm_

 

* * *

 

 

He takes a day off, and spends it curled in the porcelain of his tub, lukewarm water ripping around his thighs.  A near empty fifth of whiskey hangs loosely by the neck between his sluggish fingers, and he rests his head against the edge where it’s coolest.  There’s a slithering warmth in his gut that travels slowly along his legs, pooling up around his lungs and slipping down the length of his arms.  His fingers twitch, the bottle sliding some, and he hums quietly to himself.

He tells himself to raise the bottle to his lips again, but the action takes too much effort, and he does little more than jerk his elbow, and the bottle falls and clatters against the hardwood.  With only a mouthful left, it doesn’t even slosh onto the floor.  Eyes fluttering, Kylo spares it an uneven glance, and rewards himself with the idea that it’ll be saved for later as he sinks deeper into the tub.  The water rises around his hips until it tickles his lower ribs.

Nearby, his phone rings for the fourth time, and he ignores it once more.

 

* * *

 

There are raised voices, angrily biting and snarling and jabbing from one end of the house to the other.  The walls echo with them, vibrating with the symphony that swells as a door slams, feet stomp, and something shatters against the floor.  The screaming escalates, until the stomping and storm of chaos swells into the main room. 

Someone makes a comment about Grandfather—another voice begs not to bring him up again.  _He needs to get over it—he’s still a boy, he loved Anakin, idolized him—People die, he needs to accept that and move on and grow up._

Insults fly as easily as curses, and there’s a threat to leave, a concurring agreement, and a silence that bellows louder than any voice in the house.

He’s barely sixteen years old, and hot tears get wiped away instantly.

 

* * *

 

“You’re late again.”

Kylo doesn’t even give Hux a glance, not wanting to give the ginger further fuel to satiate his smug fire.  But he knows he doesn’t need to do any of that, for the disheveling of his hair, the shadows under his eyes, the reddening around his nostrils from wiping and checking and _bleeding_ are all clues enough that Kylo is a less than responsible adult and employee to First Order, and there will be no hiding of any of this from Snoke.

The large steel doors are as imposing as ever, and Kylo hesitates momentarily even after they’ve begun to open and Hux passes him.  He glares at the spot between the ginger’s shoulder blades, mulling briefly over how the man can sleep at night and not, at least to Kylo’s knowledge, indulge in anything to help with that darkness. 

When he follows, the glass wall that is so often open for the city is concealed behind heavy red drapes, and Kylo ignores the pang of loss that festers beneath his lungs.

Phasma is already there, nearest to Snoke’s desk when she gifts him a quick glance.  Her lips purse, something that Kylo might consider concern wavering in her eyes before she turns away.  There’s a sour taste in his mouth, tingling the hollows of his cheeks, and he swallows dryly.

“We’ve broken ground, with much thanks to Hux for managing the financial accounts.  Our profits are rising steadily, and with the resources we’ve garnered from our partnerships, we should be able to make proposals to Republic in Coruscant within the coming months, if not weeks.” 

Snoke speaks as though he’s rehearsed these words, and Kylo can only stare at the floor beneath the glass desk.  To his right, Hux is beaming with pride so vibrantly that Kylo can feel him buzzing, his delight almost too much to bear. 

“Phasma has done well smoothing over the drafts that we’ll be sending at the end of the month to Republic, as well as finalizing contracts.  Construction is under way for another office in the Takodana District.”

Good, he tells himself, wanting to spare Phasma a look and a smile, but he keeps to himself instead.  There’s a swell in his heart, and he gives a moment to wish her a quiet thought of congratulations. 

But he doesn’t need to meet his mentor’s gaze to know the old man is glaring at him, now, no doubt the puckering of his scar not, at all, diminishing the frown he has.  “Ren, you disappoint me.”

Kylo resists an urge to flinch, and resorts to chewing violently on the inside of his cheek.  His stomach twists as heat flares up through his chest and into his face, and he doesn’t even try to consider an excuse, or an explanation.  Snoke will hear none of it, he’s certain. 

“Your efforts earlier this year were remarkable, and you helped pursue our ultimate goal of bolstering our profits, as well as securing a considerable influence over the state and its structure.  But in these last few weeks you’ve floundered, failed to make even half of your usual partnerships.  And now I hear that you were in the outer limits of the city, getting wasted during your working hours on cheap alcohol.”

He can’t say anything, won’t say anything.  He can’t deny the reality that Snoke is presenting him, and whole-heartedly fessing up to it will not serve him, either.  Even still, the silence creeps in and coils around something deep in Kylo’s center, squeezing and choking until he’s forced to lift his gaze, finding his mentor towering from behind the steel and glass of his desk.  Snoke, at some point, has stood, and seems taller than ever.  His eyes are cold, his jaw clenched, and Kylo feels panic at his throat.

“When I brought you into this company, you were a sniveling boy with ambitions to outweigh your naïve perspective.  I knew you could be molded, shaped into something more—and isn’t that what you always wanted?  To be something _great_.  And yet here you are, barely more than a quarter into our year, and you’re already failing.”

Kylo wants to look away, even tries to tear his gaze from Snoke’s, but the man holds him as if by some invisible force, and the pain in his torso seizes and runs like ice.

Snoke wanders around the desk, his footsteps heavy against the floor.  Kylo swallows thickly, struggling to breathe as the man comes up to him, inches away, his eyes scanning over Kylo’s face as though to inspect him for any further visible imperfections. 

“Tell me again,” Snoke insists, his voice so quiet Kylo can barely discern his words.  “The name you chose when you came here.”

Frowning, Kylo blinks slowly, and doesn’t answer immediately.  The nature of the question thrums strangely within his center, and when he opens his mouth, only silence emits.  Snoke’s hand is an impossible blur, claws of chilled bone curling and digging and shaking his shoulder all at once.

“Who are you?”  Snoke demands, and Kylo sputters quietly, his heart threatening to stop.

“Kylo Ren.”

“Convince me.”

“I am Kylo Ren.  Your apprentice.”  His voice is harder, surer, a glaze of monotone clipping the ends.  His breath evens slowly.  From the corner of his eye, he sees Hux watching him intently, and he can’t help but guess if he’s meant to convince _everyone_.

“Who was the boy who came to my office years ago?”  Kylo chokes, something pressing to the base of his throat as the question hangs in the air, but he speaks anyway.

“Ben Solo.”

“And where is that boy now?”  Snoke’s words are poison, sinking under Kylo’s skin, burning to his bones.  

“Dead…” it’s little more than a whisper.  Snoke’s fingers dig deeper.

“Again.”

“He’s dead.  He was weak, and foolish.  So I destroyed him.”

“Did you?”  Snoke insists, his eyes narrowing.  Kylo falters, his knee bending lightly as Snoke’s fingers feel like they’re drilling into his socket.

“Yes.  He’s gone.  His weaknesses, his affections…” his heart chokes him briefly, and he stamps it down as he straightens his posture.  “They were nothing.  They _are_ nothing.”

“Then let that boy’s habits, his _vices_ , die with him.  They are not becoming of _you_.”

At this, Snoke releases him, but the cold in his gut lingers, and his shoulder feels numb.

 

* * *

 

 _This night is heating up_  
_Raise hell and turn it up_  
_Saying "If you go out you might pass out in a drain pipe"  
_ _Oh, yeah--don't threaten me with a good time_

 

* * *

 

 

Something within his core has become frozen, more solid than a glacier, and Kylo throws himself headfirst into every assignment.  He meets each challenge with an earnest perspective, a kind of desperation fueling his pride.  He doesn’t want to return to that conversation, to that cold, to the stare of Snoke’s eyes burning into the depths of his mind. 

He’s been instructed to let his— _Ben’s_ —vices die.  But if habits are anything, they’re stubborn, resilient. 

More importantly, they don’t die easily.

And, if they refuse to go down, then perhaps…

_No._

_He’s gone._

 

* * *

 

The turn of the month is barely around the corner, and Kylo knows better, knows he must be better.  Phasma’s concerns still float in his dreams even after the twitching and the flashes of shadows in the dark have passed.  She shouldn’t care, often doesn’t show it, but that tenderness—compared to Snoke’s abrasive touch—lingers.  He still remembers her words in the lift, tries to keep the promise he vaguely remembers making.

But he just…

Staring at the bottle of amber in his cabinet, next to a small decorative jar with a few packages of plastic and white, Kylo grits his teeth and tries—stars, he tries—to ignore the pounding in the back of his skull, the whispers at the edges of his subconscious, the shadows that dance in his peripheral, and he just…

Can’t.

 

* * *

 

“Thinking of no one but yourself…”  Hux chides him, and Kylo resists the blossoming need to vomit as he stumbles into the bathroom.  He’s not sure how or why Hux came to his apartment, but he knows it was probably for the best.  He can’t remember last night, and that’s enough of a concern. 

Kylo fumbles for the faucet knob, twisting it as water floods the sink, and Hux continues to speak.  “Snoke made himself explicitly clear, and you’re off drinking yourself to death in your apartment.”

He clenches his jaw, trying to block him out.  At seven in the morning, Hux’s voice is the last thing Kylo wants to hear.  But then again, there are very few things he’d rather have right now, hungover and sweating and wanting to kill every source of light and noise in the known galaxy.

Well, there might be one noise—a voice… her voice.  He might be able to handle her voice.

“Is it only a matter of time before your exploits begin involving other people?  How long do I get to wait before I see your name in the tabloids, hovering around the red districts?”

Kylo rolls his eyes.  Even wasted and high off his mind, he has higher morals than prostitution will allow.  He palms the water before splashing it over his face.

“Your selfishness will be your undoing, Ren, and it’s only a matter of time before Snoke sees that—”

“Hux,” Kylo seethes, standing slowly as water drips from his hairline and nose.  “I will say this as _nicely_ as possible: _go fuck yourself_.”

He doesn’t care if Hux has a comeback, for within a handful of moments the ginger is gone, and he breathes easily.  Slumping some, he risks a glance into the mirror.  His eyes are nearly blackened from poor sleep, his pallor washed out and dry.  He looks exactly as he feels—as though death itself has come and sucked away every inch of whatever it was that gave him purpose.  Grimacing, he tears his gaze away, swallowing as heat floods his eyes. 

He dunks his head beneath the faucet, letting the water rinse away the tears he refuses to acknowledge.

 

 _I've told you time and time again, I'm not as think as you drunk I am_  
_And we all fell down when the sun came up_  
_I think we've had enough_  
 


	6. LA Devotee

_You got two black eyes from loving too hard  
And a black car that matches your blackest soul  
__I wouldn’t change ya_  
_Wouldn’t ever try to make you leave_

There’s a pulsing between his ears, and Kylo breathes deeply, willing himself not to be swept away by passing fantasies and daydreams of reclining into a sea of cushions with a book and a drink.  He has work to do, a task to complete today, and he’ll be damned if anything gets in the way of that.

Despite this, going from company to company, speaking with the people he so tenderly swindled under the wings of First Order, is exhausting and grating, and he’s not even remotely close to being done with his day. 

The man in front of him is older, wrinkles pressed to the corners of his eyes with sand colored hair greying at the temples; he’s dressed in dark denim cargo pants and a polo, sunspots dotting his arms and deep calluses decorating his palms.  He speaks with wild hands, animated in his attempts to sway Kylo to— _stars_ , what is it he even is asking for?   Additional time?  More control over the operations?  The details are hazy at best, and Kylo feigns a look of disinterest—prompting an exasperated sound—as he glances at the folders in his hands.

Mustafar Institute had recently shifted all of their production operations from coal and fuel based energies to greener energies, but they lacked proper equipment and technicians for the machinery.  Which meant they were falling behind in production— _are still_ falling behind in production.   Sighing, Kylo skims the papers as the man rambles about funds and _First Order has been so generous, but we need more funding, and more time, and if we could hire back some of our veteran crew members who are familiar with this kind’a complicated engineering.  I mean, we’ve got some good ones here, but we have a radar guy who just can’t—_

Snapping the folder shut, Kylo straightens his shoulders, lifting his chin, and the man’s mouth stills. 

“First Order has invested in your company because you make good work with light hands, and you’re efficient,” he says, swallowing slowly as he glances around the small office space.  It’s unimpressive at _absolute_ best.  “We will consider an extra portion to smooth the transition to green energy, but you will either make do with the crew and time you have, or you will find a new backer.”

The man’s mouth widens, as though he intends to respond, but Kylo stretches out a hand and places it on his shoulder.  He spreads his fingers, digging the tips in lightly.  The man is trembling beneath him.  He lets a smile pull the corner of his mouth, nodding his head in assurance as he speaks.

“Consider what I’m offering.  I’d hate to see you go under, especially when you’ve come this far.  Don’t worry, your crew will manage as is.”

The words taste sour, and he detaches his hand almost immediately.

 

* * *

 

He pays a visit to Trade Federation, a local store that had hit big with some franchising streak years back, and has since made its mark across the nation as one of the leading hypermarkets.  Each major district has its own signature grey and black store with the bright blue and white logo blazing across the front, and Kylo clenches his teeth as he passes the threshold of the back room of one of the leading stores.

It’s less glamorous than he might have expected, with sterile walls and linoleum tiles to noisily reverberate his footsteps.  There are cheap pictures of flowers spaced unevenly along the walls, and there’s a linger smell that curls in the back of his throat and tickles his nose, and Kylo occasionally dips his head into the curve of his fist as though to clear his throat.

The woman he speaks to is young and wide eyed behind thick black-framed glasses and a high-pony that makes his scalp ache.  She fidgets, uncertain of whether to keep her fumbling fingers in her lap or on the desk in front of her, her nerves only palpitating further when he folds one leg over another, leaning back into his seat and regarding her in silence.

“Profits are good, at least?”  She offers after a moment, shrugging her shoulders as the smile she forces serves as a poor attempt to smooth over the dissatisfaction that is accompanying his raised eyebrow. 

“If I wanted to talk profits, I would have gone to your accounting department in Coruscant.  But I didn’t.  I came here.  Tell me why, do you think, I am here.”

There’s a monotone quality he’s developed, a clipped edge to the ends of his words that leaves nearly everyone he speaks to slightly unsettled.  And he can see it in their eyes, the caution, the discomfort, the way their head’s tilt lightly as though to shake an itch they aren’t even aware of yet.  On one hand, it’s satisfying to watch this effect his very voice has on other people.

On the other hand, however, he’s fucking sick of these conversations.

The woman shifts again, her teeth hooking briefly into her lower lip as her eyes scan across the contents of her desk.  Papers, pens, a few knick-knacks from home to personalize the otherwise white-washed space.  And then— _oh, yes_ —he breathes slowly as the corner of his mouth twitches, and her eyes widen as she stares at a piece of paper tucked beneath a small stack to her left.

The document’s body is otherwise hidden, but the Alliance logo is plain as a day on the top corner.

“Look, I can explain that—”

“Can you?”  His eyes narrow, his hands folding themselves neatly on his lap.  Given all their access at the First Order, Hux had seen processed accounts of transactions between Trade Federation and Alliance months ago, but they’d only recently pinpointed the specific chain a handful of days back.

Which puts Kylo here, at three-thirty-five-PM on a beautiful spring day, clean and composed while his counterpart sweats in her ill-fitting two-piece suit.

“I-i-it was from a while back, a-an old transaction.  We don’t have any present deals—deals w-with…” her voice tapers until she’s silent, and Kylo drags his tongue along the front of his teeth, before humming.

“We have records showing transactions as recent as a week ago,” he says, blinking once.  The woman’s shoulders sag, the bags under her eyes magnified behind her glasses.  “Now, if you’d like to lie me to again, I suggest you do it better.”

“Sir, I… I’m sorry, we ran into a pickle, needed something for the store—”

“Trade Federation made a very clear cut and explicit deal with First Order.  We will assist in managing your corporate finances, fine-tune your multifaceted production in exchange for a percentage of profits and equity.  Our _only_ stipulation was that your business—all repairs, assistance, counsel, et cetera—be concluded through us, and no one else.  And you took it upon yourself to do otherwise, even though we have access to virtually _anyone_ for _anything_ you might need.  And not even Trade Federation, or this store, but _you_ specifically made these decisions.  You.  A general manager making scraps more than your lower associates.”

There are tears in her eyes, and Kylo looks away, dusting off his knees before standing.  He towers, his shadow casting heavy and wide across her shaking frame, and he adjusts the button of his jacket.

“Pack your belongings.  You’re done here.”

“Sir, please, I—”

She is pleading, and he stands straighter to keep from breaking beneath the weight of her eyes.

“First Order will not tolerate this lack of respect.  Your things will be out of this office by tomorrow at closing, otherwise it will be thrown out with the rest of the garbage.  Do I make myself clear?”

Her eyes close, tears rolling, and she bows her head.  There’s a quiet _yes sir_ , and he turns away, biting his tongue to keep from vomiting.

 

* * *

 

By the end of the week, he’s ready for a line, or two, then crawl into a hole and never been seen or heard from again.

There have been good days—some companies have abided by their contracts, continued their operations and production if there is any to be made, and they’ve been good.  Such meetings leave Kylo with a bounce in his step, and he’s able to breathe just a little easier.  But other days, other meetings and companies and _people_ , are not so obedient or driven; those are the days that his insides burn and ache, and he walks away feeling washed out, clouded, and surprisingly uncertain of just about everything.

He’s developed a kind of habit to ease the disquiet that festers beneath his skin where, each night, he’ll sink into the comforts of his bed with the letters he’s harbored from his childhood.  He’ll mull over the words, the contents resonating with a gentle naivety in his soul that lingers and flourishes with the warmth of good memories, and his promises and ambitions will pulse and soar as fresh and free as the days when they were original.

The bottle he’ll, usually, bring with him is entirely independent of this habit.

But the idea of reading over these letters, of soaking in the weathered scrawl of his late grandfather’s hand has no appeal to him.  Exhaustion settles deep into his bones and Kylo has every mind as he’s stepping out into the cool evening air of going home and dropping into the tub. 

Instead, he glances up into the pink and purple sky, regarding the swirls of clouds with a tender gaze before turning on his heel, and walking down the long street.  His shoes scrape when he fails to lift his feet properly, the toes occasionally kicking a rock off the curb.  His hands find their way into the pockets of his coat, and he avoids the gazes of others as he passes them by, preferring to keep his head down more often than not.

He passes towering structures of glass and concrete, steel and stone, and a rare smaller office now and then before turning a corner and wandering down a narrow street of copper fronted buildings and colorful banners.  The glass of the shop windows are stained pink, streaks of marigold glittering onto the sidewalks as the banners ripple in a quiet breeze, and Kylo hesitates for a moment when he sees a swaying sign at the end of the road.

It’s familiar, with edges trimmed in a kind of tangerine-orange, and a heavy script that reads _Maz’s_ in white letters.  Kylo swears he can hear the music even from down the street, and there’s a tug in his heart that aches and leaves a bitter taste on his tone.  He swallows thickly, pressure building between his lungs as his gut goads him to step forward.  But he clenches his teeth, tears his gaze away from the sign, and turns away from it to follow a side street. 

It’s darker through here where the fading light doesn’t touch, and a chill creeps in to his spine, coils around his core and slithers up into his throat.  Even as a tremor races through his veins, the pressure begins to pulse in tandem with his heartbeat, and he presses a palm to the back wall of a building to stabilize himself as best he can. 

Shadows dance and fizzle at the corners of his vision and, his stomach is doing tricks as music whistles at his ears, a comfort calling his name and beckoning him back to the sunlit street. 

He stops, turning and leaning against the building as uneven breaths trickle into his lungs.  His head feels like he’s being held under water, a thrumming at the forefront of his mind as his fingers dig into the brick.  Opening his eyes slowly, Kylo stares up at the blue sky, and he sighs heavily before moving on.

 

* * *

 

He decides it’s time to get away from the dank of his apartment, more overrun with empty and unopened bottles alike than actual food, and so Kylo slips into the booth of a small, quaint café just on the outer edge of Coruscant. 

During the middle of the week in the late morning, restaurant is astonishingly busy, with nearly every table and booth accommodating at least one guest (much like himself), if not gatherings of six or more.  The wait-staff moves with efficiency, though, some carrying pitchers and trays to top off and serve drinks while others wrestle with armloads of plates and smiles bright enough to make Kylo squint.

It would seem very unlikely that someone like him would come to a place like this, which is exactly why he stepped in in the first place.

His booth is small, tucked into the back corner where he has an eye on most of the floor.  The leather cushion is aged and pressed, but still remarkably comfortable, and someone sets a water at the edge of the table with a passing comment that a server will be with him shortly.  He takes it, inspects it briefly before bringing it to his lips, letting it wash over his tongue and down is throat.

Setting it aside, he shrugs out of his coat, fumbling through a pocket before retrieving his phone.  There are no new messages, and so he sets it down onto the table towards his left, closest to the wall before looking across the café once more. 

The front wall, where the main doors are, consists of nothing but windows, which pour in light in waves of spring yellow and blue.  The walls are adorned in all manners of art, photographs, and other pieces of memorabilia with the scrawl and names of people he can only assume were previous customers.  There are ticket stubs with dated film names, small comments of _First date!_ and laminated journal pages with flowers pressed on them, memories from other people’s childhoods. 

The floors are hardwood, light and roughened from the years, but sturdy, and even in the noise and bustle he doesn’t hear a single creak.  The tables, chairs, and booths are older, but gleaming and well-used, and there’s a kind of homey feel to the atmosphere, even with over a dozen or more employees dressed in black slacks and cotton shirts dancing about with a grace and ease that brings a small smile to Kylo’s face.

Settling back into the leather of the booth, Kylo glances over at his phone as it rings with an email notification.  His fingers slide over the surface, tapping in the passcode before swiping through unnecessary pages.  Likely it’s from work, with some new update regarding accounts or meeting itineraries from Phasma. 

He taps on the email, skimming briefly over its contents as a tingle rushes along the back of his neck and flutters up and around his temples, buzzing and pulsing lightly.  Frowning, he traces a finger along his brow, rereading the same three lines as his heart thuds up against his ribs until finally he tears his gaze away, unable to concentrate as his eyes lift, and the world once more melts away.

She’s there with her brown hair wrapped in the line of three buns, her eyes zeroing in on his own as a tentative smile pulls at the corner of her mouth.  She turns from where she’s entered the restaurant, pulling her cross-body bag from over her shoulder before taking the distance between them in less than a handful of strides.  He’s speechless, a breath caught in his throat as he watches her curl a hand over the back of the seat opposite him, before she slides into the booth.

Suddenly so close he sees everything—the freckles are prominent across her nose, the depths of her eyes endless and warm.  There’s a birthmark below the line of her left eye, more of them dotting her throat and dipping down beneath the fabric of her shirt where he can no longer see.  The smile on her lips widens some, her eyes wide and watching as much as he is observing her.  Light washing through the window casts a glow around her head, and her roots are deep and dark and fading out into honeyed mocha, a few fly-aways catching like fire, and she is so beautiful that Kylo wonders how long he can stare before he simply cannot anymore. 

But, even still, as his eyes trace the line of marks up her throat, to her lips, the curve of her jaw and the sharp edge to her cheekbones, his mind twists the details, and he sees his dreams laying over her real, true self before him.  He sees the black backdrop, the pale of her skin, and she’s so close now that he can’t help but picture his hands on her, hers on him, his lips tasting her—

_No_.  Stop.

Noise returns, the bustle of the café and its employees filtering into his ears first like white static before becoming definitive.  He blinks slowly, and she’s still there, still watching him with a smile that is reaching into his gut and holding him steady.  Breathing deeply, Kylo opens his mouth, unable to speak as his throat runs dry, and somehow he’s smiling faintly back at her.  His eyes crinkle, and he regards her for a moment before licking his lower lip.

Her gaze briefly flashes to his mouth, before returning to his.

“Hi,” he finally manages, his voice only marginally weaker than he’d like it to be.  Her smile remains.

“Hello.”  Her accent is heavier with her being this close, the Coruscanti tone lilting the _oh_.  Her teeth are impossibly white.

He thinks his phone buzzes again, and he ignores it, enraptured by the light bouncing off of her hair, her eyes, her smile, and the proximity between his hands on the table and her fingers folded together in front of her.  Kylo knows he should speak, should properly introduce himself, should do just about _anything,_ but he’s breathless, his skin tingling from fingers to toes with a burning desire to reach out and touch her, because surely this woman is made of stardust and wonder and cannot _possibly_ be real—

“Is this usually how you meet people?”  She asks, raising an eyebrow even as her smile widens— _good graces, her smile is more radiant than the sun_.  “You stare at them enough times until they come talk to you?”

Kylo spares a small laugh, heat flaring under his cheeks as he brushes a strand of hair away from his eyes.  “Admittedly, most of the people I meet aren’t worth a second glance, let alone staring.”

“Oh?”  She remarks.  “Am I worth staring at?”

“Only if it doesn’t bother you.”

“Did I say it bothers me?”

Kylo opens his mouth again, and a laugh escapes instead.  She laughs as well, sweet and soft and he closes his eyes to relish in it, let it pour over his skin and settle deep.  He looks to her again, letting delight bubble down in his chest and warm his center. 

“No, you didn’t.”

“Then I’ll ask again: am I worth staring at?” 

He wavers between the weight of her eyes and the curve of her smile, and his mouth runs dry for a moment.

“Definitely.”

She smiles, shaking her head some before looking at her hands.  And he watches, closely, the way he can see her thinking, forming her next words, her eyes glazing over to his hands, his phone, up the lines of his arms before focusing—again—on his lips.  She lingers there, blinks, and looks up to meet him once more.

_She is so—_

“I don’t know your name,” she finally speaks, quiet and almost embarrassed.  Kylo hesitates, admiring her for a second before swallowing thickly.

“Kylo,” he murmurs, as though it were a secret for her ears and hers only. 

She smiles, a lightness reaching her eyes that makes his insides clamor for her.

“I’m Rey.”

 

_Swimming pools under desert skies_  
_Drinking white wine in a blushing light  
_ _I’m just another LA devotee_


	7. Collar Full | Far Too Young To Die

_We’ve waited so damn long, we’re sick and tired_  
_(I’ve never so adored you)_  
_I won’t leave any doubt, or stone unturned_  
_(I’m twisting allegories now)_

They’re still in the café long after the light has turned pink and purple, the sun disappearing behind the edges of the buildings around; the lamps have been switched on, and Kylo tenderly folds his hands around his coffee bringing it to his lips as Rey excitedly chatters away about an old freighter engine she is repairing for a client.  She’s told him of her work at a shop at the southern edge of the city, in an older district that he hasn’t traipsed in a very long time.  Her hands make wild motions, fingers occasionally splaying wide as she describes the enormity, only to then curl and press together when she remarks of the intricacy in the wiring, the thin plates she must be mindful of, the absolute stillness she must adopt.

He watches her over the rim of his mug, her eyes wide and alight, and he hears every word, letting it sink like a stone in water, resting and remaining even as he lets his gaze wander over her lips, the way her shoulders dip with some of her bigger movements.  The curls of hair draping from her temples, hanging in front of her ears bounce occasionally, and only when they brush and tickle at her chin will she reach up briefly to push them away, never quite tucking them back, for they always find their way again, just as drawn to her as he is.

She is astoundingly beautiful.

Swallowing slowly, Kylo lets her speak, offering only a word here and there when he is able—not that she is overpowering, but she speaks of mechanics beyond him.  His understanding of engineering is limited, and what little his family had offered him in his youth is rusty at best.  But Rey weighs each remark with a clarity that brushes the dust off his older memories, scrubbing and polishing them until they’ve surfaced, shiny and new, and fitting into place like a puzzle.  With her words, her experiences, and those past days, something shifts and buzzes in his gut, warm and flighty, and he grips the mug a little tighter as his heart threatens to burst beneath his sternum.

She tells him of the shop—a massive place, a hollowed hangar that once homed fighters thirty to sixty years old—he doesn’t tell her, right away, that he knows of them, preferring to let her paint the image perfectly for him.  Now, though, as she explains, reigning in her gestures in favor of gripping her mug and sipping slowly, it holds spare parts and junk models for practice and tinkering, while the front half serves as the office space and main work stations.  She’s a senior mechanic there, despite being so young, and there’s a kind of pride that glows behind her words, and Kylo offers her a wide smile when she talks of her ambitions to have a shop of her own, where she can build her own cars.

After a while, she settles back into the leather of her half of the booth, watching him carefully with a smile that roses her cheeks, and Kylo swallows thickly as his skin feels hot and tight under her gaze. 

“What about you?  You must have a story,” she says, drinking from her own mug slowly, her eyes unwaveringly locked with his own.

Kylo offers a tentative smile, pressing his tongue into his cheek for a second dipping his head some. 

“Perhaps,” he suggests, and Rey raises a brow as she swallows, letting her mug rest on the table in front of her. 

“Perhaps?  Not in a sharing mood?”

It’s inquisitive, but not forceful.  He laughs.

“I can’t imagine it’s nearly as fascinating as yours,” he regards, shrugging briefly.  Her eyes flash, and there’s pressure in this hollow of his throat.  “It’s rather lonely, actually.”

“You’re lonely?”  Rey asks, grinning.  “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised, for someone who passes his time staring at other people.”

Kylo laughs again, shaking his head.  “Not many.  Just the special ones.”

“And what other special ones might there be?”

“Well, presently, none.” 

There’s a moment, a beat, a breath that lingers in the air, and her hands are on the table near her mug, and his fingers are still looped with his own, and he presses them deeper against the ceramic, a desire tickling beneath his skin to reach out, to touch, to feel the softness of her wrists, the calluses that no doubt decorate her fingers and palms.  He wonders how her coarse hands might compare with the rest of her.

Her eyes are on his mouth, then his hands, and then she’s staring into her mug before bringing it back to her lips, and the light above their heads flickers once.

 

* * *

 

_I’ve got a collar full of chemistry from your company_  
_(I want to complicate you)_  
_So, maybe, tonight I’ll be the libertine_  
_(Don’t let me do this to myself)_

* * *

 

At night he tosses, a storm howling in the depths of his mind as he sits upright, panting and clawing at the sheets tangled around his hips.  His fingers are trembling, fidgety, and he chokes quietly as he fumbles off the edge of the bed and to his wardrobe.  Ripping the doors open, he presses back against the thrumming in his head, the pulsing, buzzing, burning under his skin like a sickness setting him on fire. 

He retrieves the small box, seeing honeyed hair and brown eyes in the dark, and he tosses the lid open, grabbing one of the plastic bags nestled there.  It’s heavier than some of the others, packed slightly fuller, already cut and ready, and hasty fingers dig, nails ripping it open delicately.

His heart is thudding painfully, cold sweat slicking his hairline and sticking a lock across his forehead, mind racing a thousand miles a minute.  A smile, a laugh, the pallor of her skin being so much warmer, sun-kissed and beautiful, and not at all like the warped, pale, ethereal image he so often sees in the shadows of his dreams.  It must be soft, so soft, she must be soft—

He eases a thin, uneven line onto the back of his hand, too impatient to turn on a light, to lay it out right on the mirror he keeps nearby, before setting the bag aside.  He pressed a finger to his right nostril, dipping his head, snorting deeply.  It tickles, burning momentarily as he repeats, opposite side, before fumbling for the glass of water on his headboard.  He dips his fingers in it, gathering a few drops before inhaling those to wet the skin.

Swallowing deeply, the tingling fades, his eyes stinging for a moment as he slumps back onto his bed, her voice whispering at his ear.  Coughing quietly, Kylo falls into his pillow, digging his fingers into the seams of the case, shivering as a numbness spreads along his throat, into his head, the pulsing abating temporarily as the world shifts and becomes delightful.  Her words are quiet, and she is warm and bright and vibrant and beautiful.

So beautiful. 

The thrumming between his temples subsides, and he thinks he feels it again—that tether, that invisible line that leaves him and disappears out into the window.  He turns his head, almost seeing it shimmer as it vanishes into the night, and he stares blankly.  He wonders where she is, if she’s sleeping, if she’s alone or with someone, if she’s caught up in him just as he is caught up in her and everything twists and hurts until the cold numbness touches it and it’s not so bad but he’s so desperately visualizing that tether.

It’s there, a gentle, grey mist, wavering in an out of focus like blinking stars.  He closes his eyes, and sees her face.

 

* * *

 

_Oh show me your love_  
Give me more but it’s not enough  
_(I’m chasing rollercoasters)_

 

* * *

 

They meet for a coffee early in the morning—Kylo learns that she is just as much of an early bird as he is, for the first time they’d bumped shoulders at the shop it had been entirely by accident, but a pleasant surprise to linger on his day.  Today, she is dressed in simple blue jeans, rolled cuffs just above her ankles, a hole in the knee, with a blank shirt and an oversized brown leather jacket that reads vaguely familiar.  Red piping runs down the shoulders and sleeves, and he has a brief flash of a dark-skinned man with a short cut and wide lips wearing it.

Ah, yes.

She takes her latte light and sweet, with extra foam that sticks to her upper lip when she sips on it, and he smiles and starts to reach for her, hesitating when her eyes catch him.  His hand hovers, inches from her face, and he watches her tongue poke out and drag across her lip, clearing it away.

When she smiles, he lets his hand drop, relaxed.  He’s thankful the tremors hadn’t raced passed his wrist.

He holds his own, a dark roast with a splash of cream for flavor, only barely cutting through the bitterness.  He likes sweet things in his own way, but coffee has always been that morning piece to cut through his nights, the faded numbness, the sweats, and his dreams.  Even now, with steam wafting up and tickling his skin, moistening the cracked linings, he feels a little more solid, a little more real. 

They share the moment, sipping their drinks as the sun peaks over the city scape, bathing the streets in a warm red-orange light, and Kylo stares out at it for a long breath.  From his peripheral, Rey is watching him, and when he turns on her she smiles slowly.

“Where’d you go?”  She asks, and he raises a brow.

“What do you mean?”

“You went away for a moment there,” she acknowledges, palming her cup between both hands.  “Got all distant on me.”

Heat flushes his cheeks as the back of his neck runs cold and damp.  “I’m sorry,” he says, and Rey shakes her head.

“It’s all right.  You looked peaceful.”

She takes a drink then, and Kylo buries a pained smile behind his own cup.

 

* * *

 

“Our presence is formidable, and we can begin making preparations for our proposals to Republic in Coruscant,” Snoke says one day as a mid-summer storm rages against the windows.  Kylo is seated across from Phasma at the table, his eyes lost on his notes as his mentor speaks.

Between the shifts in production from Mustafar, the change in leadership across Trade Federation—not just the store he’d personally visited—as well as a rise in profits from First Galactic, First Order had garnered enough influence, enough of a stake in the corporate atmosphere of the nation that it could no longer go unnoticed and clandestine.  In a matter of weeks, Kylo had seen it become molded, made new, clean cut and fresh like a polished slate in its presentation.

It had become… not quite what he has always imagined.

He knows to trust his mentor, the work of his accomplices, and his own accomplishments.  He knows they’re on a path to unifying major businesses and leaders, for a unified people can create a unified nation, and what better way to turn the tide in the favor of a true and egalitarian people than through unity. 

Even still, something doesn’t settle quite right within him, though he’s not sure whether it’s an instinct or the paranoia of his high wearing off. 

“Alliance is weak since we’ve brought Imperial Science in as a partner.  Phasma will continue to work with their senior advisors until we may implement our own staffing.  Little by little, we will dismantle any last ties they have with Alliance.”

Kylo frowns, remembering the barren office and the blonde woman from Trade Federation, the tears in her eyes, but says nothing, penciling briefly on his notepad.

“We’ve projected profits,” Hux’s voice cuts through the cloud swimming around Kylo’s ears, and he looks up to see the ginger sifting through papers before sliding a few of them toward Snoke at the end of the table.  “By the end of the month, we’ll have enough set aside from our main accounts that, should Republic prove to be resilient to our partnership proposal, we can buy them outright.”

Something glistens in Snoke’s eye, and Kylo feels a chill creep into his core.

“Good,” Snoke breathes, nodding his scarred head slowly. 

“Additionally, because of Ren’s work gathering clientele and shareholders, our stocks have increased nearly four hundred percent in the last quarter.  We have hands in over sixty-five percent of the district’s companies, as well as those within border counties.  Better yet, we have expansion in the southern and western reaches of the nation in development.”

Kylo blinks, sparing a glance at Hux.  It’s, perhaps, the first time the man hasn’t been snide in Kylo’s wake, and he’s hesitant at how he feels about it.

“And your projection for that expansion?”

“We’re already in chain holders like Trade Federation, it will be easy to make a mark.  We can expect smaller offices to begin appearing within the next two quarters.”  At this, Snoke nods again, a curl in his smile that sends a shiver along Kylo’s spine, and he looks away from his mentor again to glance out at the grey, soaked city.

He thinks about Rey, and wonders whether she likes the rain.

Inhaling slowly, Kylo dips his gaze to the notepad, finding his pencil shading circles around Rey’s name.

 

* * *

 

_You’ve got it all worked out with so little time_  
_(Fixation or psychosis?)_  
_Memories that I’d black out if you were mine_  
_(Devoted to neurosis now)_

 

* * *

 

It’s four-AM and he’s shivering, sweat soaking into his sheets as he rolls upright, smoothing his hair back from his face.  Tendrils of heavy shadows linger in the depths of his mind, clawing their way into his subconscious as the details of his dream begin to fade piece by piece.  Even still, he can hear the whispers, the goading, the hissing of heavy, imposing words telling him to push, to go deeper, to dig and delve and devour until sun-kissed and freckled skin bears the bruises of his fingers, lips reddened from teeth, soft skin marred, body and soul claimed, and there’s ice in his chest with a flash behind his eyes of a scarred face and ominous eyes.

Choking, Kylo fumbles and slips off the edge of the bed, grappling for the headboard.  It jerks and trembles, his phone clattering to the floor, followed by his cufflinks—gleaming red in the pre-dawn light—an empty bag, and a wooden trinket attached to a leather cord. 

Panting heavily, he eyes the necklace, fingers shaking as he takes it, feeling the grooves with his fingertip.  He shuts his eyes, holding it tenderly to his sweat-slicked and feverish chest, willing the agitation, the anxiety, the panic and paranoia and palpitations that are running rampant under the thin layers of his physical self to settle and ease, but they don’t, and he gasps as he collapses against the side of his bed.

His throat is tight, eyes burning as his legs and knees tingle, the circulation limited and his toes turning fuzzy. 

Heaving, Kylo clamors for the base of the wardrobe nearby, pulling the bottom drawer open to find a glass bottle with amber sloshing inside of it.  His center feels like ice, crinkling and cracking along his brittle bones and he pops the top of it free before bringing it to his lips.  He swallows, and again, and he’s chugging it for a hot second before sighing into the curve of his fingers.

Heat floods him, sweat rolling in beads down the sides of his face.  His eyes dare to close but when they do he sees her, and her skin is purple from his hands and teeth, and she’s wrecked and ravaged and there’s a haunting beauty to that that makes his nerves feel like fire, something sparking and rushing through his gut and he fucking _hates_ the desire that seizes him.

He tosses his head back, quelling his demons with another swig.

 

* * *

 

“You all right?  You look… well…”  She asks him when he sits opposite her at their booth in the café.  He knows there are shadows encompassing his dilated eyes, his nose is likely tinged a faint red—too many lines last night, too many quick bursts today—and his lips are chapped.  But her gaze is concerned, unwavering, she is more brilliant than the damn sun, and the bond that goes from him to her is as clear as the water in her glass, sparkling like crystal.

“I’ll be fine.  Just a little under the weather.”  He lies, and he swallows bile.

“You could’ve canceled, it’s okay,” she offers, giving him a sympathetic smile.  No.  He couldn’t have.  She’s too bright, too warm, too good and wonderful and he will not, _cannot_ , let his own selfish habits keep him away. 

He smiles in return, albeit forcing it, and shakes his head.  “And miss, perhaps, the highlight of my day?  Never.”

“Flatterer,” Rey mumbles, smiling some.  He thinks, from the way she averts her eyes and lets the smile linger, that even in his current condition she is glad he came.  He’s glad he came, for the buzzing within his soul hasn’t calmed since the last time he’s seen her, and yes he’s trailing on the tapering ends of a high and will likely need to write off his massive pupils and hazing appearance as part of being sick, it’s all worth it because the tether is no longer vibrating like it’s been aggressively plucked, and there’s a calm in his veins that soothes his edges. 

Water is brought to their table, and he struggles not to chug his immediately, taking tentative but frequent sips.  Rey eyes him now and then, no doubt keeping the cheeky pull of her mouth in an effort to quell his nerves, but he can read the look in her eyes that she’s searching him.  He licks his lips, raising a brow, and when he sees her gaze wavering over the center of his face, he clears his throat.  Resisting a wince, he ignores the way it aches.

“Now who’s staring?”

Her cheeks flush scarlet at being caught, her eyes widening as she brings a hand to hide behind, and Kylo cannot help but to grin, and let out a hoarse laugh.

It’s a kind of laugh that rumbles from within his chest, and it’s loud and full, and it takes him by surprise at first.  And he’s not sure of the sound, of the way it rings, and it certainly feels horrifically foreign, but then Rey is grinning and laughing as well, a delight in her eyes setting fire to the mocha depths until he’s certain he could drown in them and die happier than any day previous.

The fissures in his bones and veins ache, stretch, breathe, and knit a little closer together.  Summer sunlight is streaming through the open windows, and for the first time he isn’t squinting when he looks at her.

 

* * *

 

_Show me your love_  
_Before the world catches up_  
_(I’ve got to have you closer now)_

 

* * *

 

It’s midnight and his head is swimming, and the world feels both fluid and fake as he moves his hand through the air, feeling a watery sensation creeping over his skin and between his fingers.  The edges are faded and fuzzy, blurred where he cannot focus and yet detailed to such an extent where he can that it’s almost painful to look at any one thing too long.  The lights are dim, or off completely, so as not to reflect off steel and glass and blind him.  The air, cool and crisp and with traces of mint from a diffuser in the corner, feels heavy.

He turns his head, staring at the empty space of his bed, and his heart lurches painfully to the front of his throat.  She’s somewhere else, far away, tucked into her own bed, with warm sheets and no doubt some kind of glow from a hall light or wall lamp.  She’s probably bathed in faint white, glowing in the near dark, peaceful as she sleeps.  _Is she asleep?_

… _No_.

Breathing in slowly, shakily, Kylo reaches out and touches the spare pillow.  It’s cold, unused, and he imagines her here with him instead of the other side of town. 

He sniffles, choking on fluid, and brings a hand to his nose, wiping harshly.  He smells metallic, brings the back of his hand to his mouth, and tastes blood.

 

* * *

 

_You’ve got a pocket full of reasons why you’re here tonight_  
_(Endless romantic stories)_  
_So, baby, tonight just be the death of me_  
_(You never could control me)_

 

* * *

 

“Who’s the girl?”

The question doesn’t register right away, and Kylo is too busy staring out over the city, admiring the lights, the late summer evening sunset, the pink and purple cloudless sky as washes of red, orange, and burnt yellow stretch like fingers to touch every building, every car, and his tug turns his head towards the northern half of the streets.  He thinks he sees the colored banners, hears the music and the swell of heat, the smell of the food, the sign with the white letters and the bar with the stage and—

“ _Ren_.”

A chill coils around his spine and he spins quickly, the world wavering in his peripheral, as he faces his mentor.  Snoke’s skin is ashen in the fading light, the scars webbing across his cheek and cutting across the top of his head looking haggard and deeper than usual.  His eyes are hard, and Kylo forgets to breathe.

“Who is the girl?”

He hesitates, his mind flashing to her eyes, her smile, replaying on loop her laugh as her skin soaks in the light of summer and heat and she is a beacon.

“What girl?”  He asks, and he curses himself at once.

“Don’t lie to me, boy,” the scarring stretches and twists Snoke’s mouth even as his diction remains crisp and cutting.  “You forget you are not my only eyes among the city.”

He swallows thickly, raising his chin.  He cannot brush this aside as easily as he would like, but he will downplay it.  He has to.

“She’s no one.  Casual affair.”

“ _What_ did I just say?”

The words take him by surprise, and Kylo feels panic creep up the sides of his neck, circle his throat like a noose, and he’s gasping for a breath as Snoke crosses from his desk in impossible strides, his gangly figure towering Kylo immediately.  He feels small, weak, staring up at his mentor as icy, bony fingers snap up and seize his jaw.

It’s white and freezing, and the cold seeps under his skin and spreads like a web.  Gasping softly, Kylo clenches his jaw, his eyes shifting back and forth between Snoke’s, his arms useless at his sides as his mentor shifts, standing closer still.  Creeping and crawling, cutting into him like a thousand little knives, the air becomes dry and paper thin, and he’s sapped of a resolve he wasn’t aware of clinging to.  He’s desperate for a breath, for a drink, for a line, for anything that will sever the tendrils of frost sinking into his bones.

“There’s something more,” Snoke hisses, his breath ghosting over Kylo’s face.  He flinches faintly, finger curling and folding and knotting into tight fists at his sides.  Even his toes squeeze together in his shoes.  “Did you think you could hide it from me?”

“I’ve nothing to hide,” Kylo mumbles, but it’s weak to his own ears, and Snoke releases him with a shove.  Stumbling back, he clips the edge of the table, fingers latching it as a sharp pain explodes along his thigh.

“Do you not?”  Snoke suggests, his tone uncompromisingly hard, testing and daring.  Kylo wants to touch, to warm his face and throat, but he remains still.

“No,” he huffs, a pang pulsing between his lungs. 

“Who is she, then?  A name, if you will indulge me.”

There’s a moment, throbbing in the air around him like lightning, and Kylo doesn’t speak.  He can’t, he won’t, he will not say her name, knowing the stretch of influence Snoke and First Order have.  His nightmares are shameful enough, hearing his mentor’s voice as he violates Rey’s body in touches and kisses too heavy and hard for the light that she possesses, he will not—can _not_ make those tainted images a reality. 

And he knows Snoke would—the man would find her, take her, make him choose who will break and bend her until he is compliant and focused once more.  It’s not a matter of experience, or having seen it, but there’s a cruel gleam in the depths of Snoke’s gaze that twists Kylo’s insides until they’re raw and bleeding, and he wants to keel over and scream until he’s hoarse. 

For the first time, he’s afraid.

“A name, Ren.”

“I don’t know it.”  He lies again, something inside of him squirming, straining, shaking under the force of Snoke’s eyes, as though the man’s presence were tearing his soul to pieces.

“You try my patience.”  Snoke seethes.  “Your compassion is obvious, callow, unbefitting.  I will not tolerate distractions, least of all from you.”

Kylo flinches, Snoke’s words chafing the rawness of his nerves.  His thoughts wrestle one another, and he lowers his gaze to the floor between himself and Snoke.  Heels click and footsteps fade, and Snoke returns to the space behind his desk.  In his peripheral, Kylo can see him turn, placing his skeletal hands along the back of his chair, as a beat passes, a hesitant breath shuddering between his teeth.

“If you do not provide me a name, I will find out myself.  I will know this girl, whether her influence will continue to compromise your focus and work.  If not, your _dalliance_ may resume as you like.  However—”

There’s a moment of silence, and Kylo lifts his head slowly.  Snoke’s eyes are hard, dangerous as they take in the setting light, and Kylo resists crippling under their heat, his legs momentarily unsteady.

“Should she prove otherwise, you _will_ bring her to me.”

 

_(Give me one last kiss)_  
_If you’re gonna be the death of me_  
_That’s how I wanna go_  
_(We’re far too young to die)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crazy to think we're halfway through already! :D  
> I'm so thankful for each and every one of you who've been here with me. This story is burning constantly in my mind and I really hope I can do justice to the ideas I have left for the rest of this story.
> 
> Originally this chapter wasn't part of my plan, but with the way the first half progressed, I needed something extra (plus it sets the rest of the story in the right atmosphere for what's to come, and it just worked perfectly). Additionally I utilized two songs for this because neither one seemed to fit exactly what I had in mind, and incorporating them together was kind of like the two sides of Kylo that we see here (this puppy, affectionate, genuine side he has for Rey, and the side battling addiction and obsession and the haunting of his dreams and work as well). So I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I did :)
> 
> Also I made a slight edit to chapter four, during the conversation between Kylo and Phasma. You don't have to read it, it's not drastically different, just a little less personable and more professional :p


	8. Hallelujah

_Oh, tied up in pretty young things  
In a state of emergency, who was I trying to be?  
__Then the time for being sad is over_  
_And you miss 'em like you miss no other_  
_And being blue is better than being over it_

The blankets are tangled, sheets pulled off two opposite corners and bunched in the middle.  There’s a pillow teetering on the edge, as if a single breath can knock it down at any moment.  The other has been ripped free of its case, one corner nervously worn down with microfiber stuffing protruding, lying helpless by the wardrobe.  A lamp’s toppled over from a frenzied moan and a wild hand, and Kylo is curled on the floor furthest from both the door and the window, arms wrapped around trembling knees with his gaze locked on the wall across the room.

He’s thankful the erratic beating of his heart has calmed, almost and imperceptible rhythm beneath his sweat-drenched skin and tank, even as his breaths continue to come in short, rasping, uneven gasps that barely touch his lungs.  His hairline is wet, fingers and toes buzzing from how tightly they’ve been clenched for the last however many hours he’s been in this position.  He hasn’t looked at the time, doesn’t want to look at the time, isn’t sure if seeing how long or little he’s been here will affect him now.

His throat aches, fingers fidgeting at the seams running down the sides of his lounge pants, nails pressing to the stitching, wriggling their way in to create holes that he can dip into, digging into the skin of his knees.  Prickles blossom up his thighs, and he gasps again, the cold in his core shifting and splitting.

He’d taken too much, and the crash from his high has been the worst it’s ever been—flashes and sounds of old memories mixed with a present reality and twisted fragments of nightmares he’d rather leave buried kept him from sleep.  When he’d succumbed to dark slumber, the images had been so chaotic, so twisting that he woke, screaming, tumbling from his bed as the mirage of looking through deep, warm brown eyes at his own pale face, sullen and unfeeling, while falling from the glass windows of the top of the First Order tower.

Kylo’s throat dries, and he coughs hard, body wracking itself with jerking, sputtering breaths as his nails dig deeper through fabric and flesh. 

His dreams had held so many things, old moments from his childhood, memories barely a week old, and they all were mashed together in the strangest of ways, slotting themselves together until their chronological meanings were lost, and he had seen his grandfather standing next to him as a man, disappointed, and his parents spewing venom when he was a boy, and Snoke in the corner of the café with heavy eyes on Rey—

There are spiders crawling beneath his skin, skittering and dancing down his veins and nerves, itching and pulsing as he cranes his neck left and right and back again, wanting to shake them and pull away.  He clenches his teeth, squeezes his eyes, and he is there again, balancing on the edge of the frame, looking through eyes that aren’t his, clinging for himself, grabbing at the front of his own coat, and he recognizes the hands, the arms, sees a wisp of curled brown hair tickling at his nose and he’s falling again, watching his own face twist into a smile as a scar warps and forms.

Kylo forces his eyes open once more, coughing so hard his throat throbs with pain, and something metallic coats his tongue and sprays the fabric over his thighs.  He doesn’t need light to know what it is.

Cursing, he fights to unfold himself, crawling across the floor to the wardrobe nearby. He fumbles at the drawer, pulling it open with trembling fingers.  There’s a near empty bottle there, and he reaches for it.  Fingers skimming the glass, there’s a moment where he falters, his breath filling his mouth but not reaching his throat as his core hardens, cracks, and chips. 

_Don’t_.

It’s not his own thought, too soft, too light, and he grits his teeth as he curls his hands around the drawer, knuckles flaring white.

A hand curls around the neck.

_Don’t._

Biting his cheek, he pulls it free, twisting the cap off quickly.  Downing its remaining contents in three swallows, Kylo hisses between clenched teeth, a warm burn settling down into his chest. 

 

* * *

 

He’s sitting on a park bench with her, dawn light stretching out above their heads in ribbons of pink and burnt gold, with a coffee cup between his pale fingers.  The summer air is surprisingly cool, but there’s a promise in the cloudless purple and blue that the day will promise warmth, and she is wearing form-fitting cargo pants with her work boots laced tightly to her small feet, a cut off showing her arms and an inch of her midriff, and Kylo has to concentrate to look her in the eye and not stare at the way her hip is two shades lighter than his face, though still warmer than his own.

Her hair is pulled back into a single bun, the knot thick and huge at the top of her head compared the usual three he so often sees her in.  There are curls still dangling at her ears, and when a breeze kicks it forward, she tucks it back again. 

Glancing away from her, Kylo looks out across the park, the rolling field of grass dotted with an occasional tree here and there.  In the far distance is a structure intended for children, with plastic slides, wooden bridges, bars to climb and crawl all over, but in the early morning it is vacant and cold.  Sipping slowly from his coffee, Kylo can remember his own childhood, playing on such mechanisms for imagination, with the laughter of his grandfather and his parents not far behind.

“What of your family?”  He asks her once he’s swallowed, staring the bridge.  Rey doesn’t speak right away, and Kylo remains in his half-focused silence.

When it continues, he blinks, and turns to her, and her face is withdrawn, somewhat sullen, and he immediately tastes sour in the back of his throat, regret flooding his chest.  “Rey?”

“I don’t know them.”  She says at last, and he wills himself to be launched into the rising sun.  “I lived in foster homes until I was sixteen.”  She continues, looking up at the sky with a squint before regarding him carefully.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, wanting to look anywhere but her eyes, but she holds him there, and there’s a faint smile that pulls at her mouth, however strained it is.

“’S all right?”  She suggests, shrugging a shoulder.  “I got on all right with a few good people now and then, but once I had the opportunity to be on my own… I took it.  It was better that way.”

Kylo blinks once, feeling a tingle in his jaw and the bitterness returns to the back of his mouth as he swallows.  “You’ve been alone?”

“Well,” Rey jumps in at once, pursing her lips as she focuses on the meadow before them.  “Not really.  I have Finn, and Poe.  My boss looks after me, I guess?  But they’re all—I don’t have a family.  Don’t know what I’d do if they ever did come ‘round?”

  There’s a pang in his chest, like a punch has gone straight to his gut and the air has left him entirely.  At sixteen he was in school, trying to finish and graduate from the Academy while reeling from his grandfather’s death, and she—she was alone. 

Kylo looks away from her, drinking once more from his coffee, and doesn’t ask about her family again.

 

* * *

 

It’s midday and he’s sitting in his office, mulling over papers and reports, sighing heavily as the beauty of the day beyond his window tantalizes him with clear skies, trees bristling lightly, flowers in full bloom along the street’s edges down below.  There are people and cars and a bustle to the square that only comes this time with the summer heat, and Kylo rubs at his eyes before shoving the folder he’s been staring at for an hour aside.

Running fingers through his hair, he settles back into his chair as his phone buzzes on the desk beside him.  Frowning, he reaches for it, flipping open to see that he has a message from Rey—he’d gotten her number some time ago, and their conversations are minimal but meaningful, and there’s a smile on his mouth as he opens it.  It’s a picture of her coffee, the foam decorated with a fair little flower.

He texts her quickly, admiring her drink and expressing envy to her freedom, mentioning that he’s stuck behind a steel desk in a leather chair.  He hits send, before fidgeting with his phone further.  He checks a few other applications, skimming through emails before letting his distaste of the day push him into the camera roll.  He flips through his photos—there are few, mostly of architecture of other buildings, black-and-white snapshots saved from scavenging media—before coming across one he hasn’t seen, hadn’t thought to find on his phone, in forever.

It’s of him from when he graduated the Academy—his heavy robes crisp and pressed, a beaming smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  Han Solo is to his right, with a hand on his shoulder, while his mother, Leia, is to his left, brimming with tears and pride.

His chest, cold and cracking, aches, and he struggles to breathe for the longest time.  His finger hovers over a small icon of a trash-bin, wavering as he tells himself desperately to delete it.  His vision blurs, stings, and a tear splashes against the front of his screen.

He stabs the home button with his thumb, but lets the photo remain.

 

* * *

 

“What do you mean the shipment’s running late?”  Rey is on her phone—a janky, older thing with a cracked screen, but she claims it serves her well, and Kylo tries to remember the privileges he has compared to everything she’s had to fight for. 

Her eyes are alight with fire, and she places her opposite hand on her hip.  She’d been telling him about a load of stock the shop’s been waiting on, specifically an item she needs for the engine she’s been rebuilding, and that she should be expecting a call any time for its delivery.  Though, as Kylo drinks from his glass, cool tea with a spritz of lemon, he refrains from laughing at the frustration on her face.  Clearly, her timeline’s been compromised.

“You promised a four-day delivery, it’s now been six, and you’re telling me it’s because of a processing error?” she continues, turning away from him with an eye-roll when she sees him struggling to contain his laughter.  It’s not that seeing her riled up brings him delight, but rather the explosive nature of her fury.  She’s always been radiant, joyful, or snarky in his presence.  This is a newer, harsher side of her, and while he will not doubt her capacity for anger, something tickles him about it.

Of all the things she could direct her anger, frustration, and desperation toward, and it’s a piece of engineering equipment.

She’s arguing with the person on the other end of the phone, a seething edge to her words.  He can’t see her face, but imagines that her brow is furrowed, her jaw set.  She crosses her arm over herself, and the back of her shirt pulls.  The power of her stance cuts her shape, and though she is slim, he can see the lines of muscles, the stretch between her shoulders.  He sets his glass down slowly, letting his gaze rake down the line of her figure, wondering how taught she might be beneath his fingers.

She whips around again, cursing in a language he doesn’t recognize, and something stirs in his gut as he watches her teeth flash, bare, undoubtedly some pejorative sentiments passing her lips before she pulls the phone away, tapping the screen angrily.  Kylo observes her head raising, spine straightening, and shoulders visibly easing as she breathes. 

There’s disappointment in her eyes, and she purses her lips, squinting one closed as she glances around the café before turning to cross from the corner she’s been standing in back to the booth she shares with him.

She tosses her phone on the table, letting it clatter and skid across the surface, where it bumps the plate of food Kylo’s barely touched.  She sighs, smoothing a hand over her face and into her hair.  “Sorry,” she says simply.  Kylo smiles, taking her phone into hand before passing it back.

“Don’t be.  You’re right to be upset.” 

“Yeah, and you laughing makes it no better,” she clips, and Kylo might be offended if it isn’t so…

_Endearing_.

He’s fighting another laugh, wanting to apologize, but Rey is rolling her eyes and smiling as she snatches her phone back, their fingers brushing.  Warmth rushes across his knuckles, slipping over the back of his hand, flooding up the length of his arm and soon she is laughing, and there’s warmth in his chest as his cheeks begin to ache.  Her eyes meet his, and there’s something there, sparkling and bright in the depths of her gaze that resonates with him.  A kind of knowing, a kind of…

He’s dabbing at wetness in the corners of his eyes as ice chips and cracks further away from his lungs and ribs, and something settles in there instead, beating alongside his heart as light gleams through the window near their table, shining against the back of her hair.

 

* * *

 

He steps into the lift, thankful for the coming end of the day when the doors stop, slide open again, and Hux steps in beside him.

Kylo retains his grief, keeping his expression as stoic as possible as the ginger reaches for the panel, pressing a button separate from the lobby.  Swallowing slowly, Kylo straightens his back as Hux stands nearby, folding his arms behind his back.

“I understand you have a bit of a distraction on your hands.”  Kylo rolls his eyes, keeping his gaze far from Hux’s invasive stare.

“It’s hardly any concern of yours.”

“I find that hard to believe.  A concern of Snoke’s is a concern of mine, and he is very disturbed by your lack of focus.”

“My private matters have no effect on my work, or what I bring to our company,” Kylo sneers, sparing a sideways glance.  “For that matter, you have no part in this, regardless of what Snoke may share with you.  Kindly, if you can, stay out of this.”

“How passionate, for something that has no effect on you, as you say,” Hux chides, raising an eyebrow.  Kylo shakes his head, fingers twitching, fidgeting, and curling into fists at his sides.  Hux’s blue eyes are raking along his profile, and Kylo has half a mind to turn and strike him.  “You still haven’t given him a name.”

“That conversation is between me and Snoke.”

“You think you’re so special,” Hux goads, turning to face Kylo.  Kylo does not permit the same luxury, keeping his gaze fixated on the steel framework of the lift.  “You are a boy amongst men, here, playing at politics and power while the rest of us are trying to create a proper society.  You may’ve impressed Snoke early on, but don’t forget that it was your _family_ and _their legacy_ that earned you a place here, not any of _your_ so-called accomplishments _._ I suggest you reconsider your own imagined importance: your addictions already have you in hot water, don’t let some _girl_ be the reason you destroy yourself.”

The lift rings, and the doors open.  Hux turns, steps out before pausing briefly.  Kylo feels a breath passing his lips, his shoulders sagging some as Hux turns his head, catching Kylo in his peripheral.

“Move quickly, Ren.  It’s tedious finding someone without a last name, but it is not impossible.”

 

* * *

 

_No one wants you when you have no heart_  
 _I'm sitting pretty in my brand new scars_  
_You'll never know if you don't ever try again_  
_So let's try_

 

* * *

 

He’s tossing and turning at night, whimpering weakly in his sleep when his phone rings beneath his pillow.  A quiet melody filters its ways through cotton and microfiber, and he wakes slowly, fishing for it at once before accepting the call and bringing the device to his ear.  Breathing deeply, he sits up, grogginess fading from his temples as he drags a hand through his hair.

“Hello?”

“Did I wake you?”  She asks, her own voice just as rugged. 

“Yeah, but it’s all right,” he mumbles, mopping a hand over his face to wipe away the last of his dreams.  “What’s up?”

“I…”  She hesitates, and he hears her breathe in, shakily.  “I’m not sure.  I had this feeling.  And I just wanted to…”

Kylo waits, hearing her sigh and curse, and he can picture her combing her own fingers through her hair—he imagines that it’s down, but can only vaguely see what it might actually look like.  He glances to the window, the unfathomable darkness leeching at the window frame, and he wonders how late it actually is that neither street lamps nor sunlight are touching the glass.

Rey breathes again, before speaking quietly.  “I just…  You wouldn’t believe it even if I told you.”

“Try me?”  Kylo offers, and he smiles when she huffs out a soft laugh.

“I had a dream, ‘s all,” she explains, and he looks down at his lap, fingers toying with the blanket.  “Lots of pain and sadness, and longing.  It wasn’t mine, though?  I was… I was someone else.”

He frowns, chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

“Someone else?”  He inquires, and he sees glass and his own pale face, panic in his chest, wisps of curled brown hair whipping into his eyes as he falls. 

“It doesn’t make any sense.  It’s probably nothing.”

“Rey,” he exhales, and he hears her sigh.  In the back of his mind he can see her shoulders hunching, her fingers coming up to press and drag over her eyes, massaging her temples, her jaw clenching as she thinks. 

“Can I ask you something?”  She twists the subject, and Kylo lets out a long, labored breath.

“Anything,” he offers, craning his head to look up at the ceiling.

“Have you ever been so close to someone that you… you felt connected, literally, to them?  Like you know how they’re feeling without them saying anything, know when they’re hurting and in need?  You just… you _know_?”

He blinks, feeling a beating inside of his body that almost matches his own heart, and he looks to the window.  A line of grey imperceptible beyond his peripheral, and it’s shimmering and light, and he can see her propped up in bed with a hand in her hair, looking out her own tiny window, and they’re miles apart across a vast city but he swears he can see her, can feel the welling of her throat as she swallows, the palpitation of her heart in her gut, her fingers worrying the case of her phone, her teeth hooking into her lip—

“Yes.”  He sighs.  “I think so.”

“Do you?”  Her voice is so soft he almost doesn’t hear it.  There’s a whimper on her end, and he bows his head into his free hand, fingers drawing circles into a temple.  “I thought, surely, I was going mad, that I was alone...”

“You’re not.  I feel it, too.”

Rey pauses, and Kylo realizes his voice had strained on his words.

“You’re afraid,” she says, and he swallows, clenching his teeth.  “Why?”

Beneath his skin, there’s a thrumming—two different beats of drums waging a war to command his rhythm.  He rakes his nails through his hair, palming the back of his neck as he draws his knees to his chest.  There is want and desire pressing to his gut, his hips, buzzing lightly along his veins that is equal parts jittering and needy for white and amber and swirling masses of color and pleasure, as well as for light and warmth and her brown eyes and full lips.

He sighs quietly, leaning against the headboard, knowing that he’s got a stash just in arm’s reach, that there’s a fresh bottle in the bottom of the wardrobe, but he can just as easily go for a taste of her lips as he can for a drink, would rather bury himself in the waves of her hair than in the folds of his blankets, sweat-drenched and hallucinating with a cool numbness suffocating his throat.

He is afraid.  He’s afraid of his habits, of the way they claw and clamor and cut at his insides like micro-daggers pricking and pinching, the edges serrated leaving him raw.  He’s afraid because the bloody noses are frequent and heavy the longer he goes without, and the hollow of his eyes and cheeks are starting to become warped in steam-filled showers and in the depths of his dreams, and no matter how many options he gives himself, his appetite is weak and fading.

He’s afraid because they already know too much—they know he’s distracted, they know he spends his free time with her, they know that she is an orphan and works in an auto shop at the southern edges of the city.  He’s certain they probably know her name and they’re waiting for him to fess up to it, to admit his failures, his weaknesses, his affections, his attachment, and he’s afraid they’ll hurt her, they’ll ruin her and everything she’s built and made for herself.  They wouldn’t hesitate to do it, to make him hurt and make him bleed, and they’ll warp and mold him once more and kill the boy, kill the last bit of Ben that’s inside of him, the part of him that sees her light, sees her radiance, feels their bond, and is clinging so tightly to her like a man starved of hope—

“Kylo?”

He doesn’t realize he’s gasping, tears stinging his eyes, until she says his name.

 

* * *

 

It takes… a really long time.  And it’s not, at all, an easy conversation.  In fact, there are few words that are spoken.  But they’re sitting at their bench in the park, with the afternoon sun dipping down into the western reach, fading beneath a sea of pink and heavy orange, and he pulls out a small bag and presses it to her hand. 

He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t have to, to know that she inspects it, turns it forward and back and feels the powder through the plastic between her fingers.  He can feel her tense, her shoulders tighten next to his, her legs shift and uncross as her feet plant into the grass.  She’s stabilizing herself as he exposes his reality like a nerve, and he’s waiting, waiting, waiting—

Kylo isn’t sure why, and there’s a piece of him that regrets this decision.  In the months they’ve known each other, spoken, steadily come closer together, she’s seen parts of him that have been masked, covered, glorified in their presentation.  He’s shown her the best parts, the prettiest, the finished product without ever hinting at the world behind his dark eyes.  But something had told him, whether in the morning when they’d gotten coffee and her fingers had skimmed his wrist, her eyes wavering between his own with a fondness that filled his soul, or after that night when he’d felt so raw and new he may as well have been born again, that he needs to do this, he needs to show her, for her to know that he is broken and chipping away into ugly pieces.

He needs her to know, now, while they can still end this with dignity, that he is not a good man.

He’s ready to stand, to walk away, to let her dispose of his crutch however she may like and forget this moment, try to forget her with her brown eyes, her smile, her silhouette in the dark of his dreams, when her hand comes and takes his own.  Hers is small, but rough, and browning from the summer as she laces her fingers with his. 

Blinking, Kylo looks at her, and her eyes are hard, and warm, and there is anger but there is also sadness, empathy—

Above all, there is compassion.

She tells him she knows someone.  He can reach out to them, to talk, to get help.  She’ll be at his side, if he wants it. 

He could kiss her, and settles on pressing his mouth to the back of her hand, instead.

 

* * *

 

It’s the tail end of the weekend, the month drawing to its close as the summer days heat up and stretch out longer.  He’s in his apartment, legs bouncing with anticipation fueling his blood as trembling fingers cycle through the contacts of his phone. 

He hasn’t gotten rid of it, couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.  He hovers over the number, saved but unidentified, as his heart suffocates the base of his throat.

He can’t—no, he can’t do this.  He can’t.  There’s too much in his head, too much pulsing and piercing and puncturing his lungs and his bones, his skin feeling like fire, like the irritation from a grass-allergy, pocked and itching.  He lunges from his chair, unable to sit as his nerves tingle and buzz, toes cramped and feeling like white-noise as he walks. 

Breathing hard, he combs his fingers through his hair, pulling hard until he grits his teeth, vision blurring with salty tears as he thumps against the wall. 

He has to.  He has to do this.  He’s had enough.

Enough.

_Enough…_

Biting his lip, he presses down on the screen, calling the number.  He lets it ring, and ring, and ring, and he’s ready to hang up and forget this when it connects with a click.

There’s silence.  Heavy, throbbing silence that deafens him.  The world turns fuzzy, slowly tipping on its side.  This was a mistake, a mistake, he shouldn’t have.

“Ben?”

Han Solo has never sounded so old, yet so hopeful.

 

_All you sinners stand up, sing hallelujah_  
_Show praise with your body, stand up, sing hallelujah_  
_And if you can't stop shaking, lean back, let it move right through ya_  
_Say your prayers_


	9. Death Of A Bachelor

_Do I look lonely?_  
_I see the shadows on my face_  
_People have told me I don't look the same_

 

“Ben?”

He swallows thickly, clenching his jaw.

“Han.”

On the other end of the line, he hears Han Solo breathe deeply, and he can feel his own shoulders slumping some.  A moment of silence passes, and Kylo wonders if it’s been an eternity, instead.

“It’s good to hear your voice, kid,” Han mumbles, and Kylo presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, inhaling slowly through his nose.  He’s hardly a kid anymore, but there’s this pressure between each of his ribs that makes existing uncomfortable.  His heart is aching, trembling and beating erratically near the hollow of his throat.  Fingers twitch, clench, unclench, stretch and dig into his hair as he stares at the floor.

“It’s—been a while,” the words are broken, sounding so unlike him that he has half a mind to throw his phone across the room and forget about this entire exchange.  There’s whispering in the back of his mind, tickling his ear, cold and sharp and cutting like tiny shards of glass, and he knows better than to be doing this, knows the kind of shit he pulls on others for going behind the back of his company—

But he… has had _enough_.

“It’s all right,” Han assures, his voice harder, but warmer.  “You needed—need—time.”

He looks up, letting his gaze cut through walls and buildings and through the winding streets of the city, and he can see Han in that quaint little house, one hand holding the phone while the other has a thumb tucked into the back pocket of his pants.  He’s probably still wearing that old, beat up leather coat of his…

Kylo closes his eyes, feeling a sting at the ducts, and he realizes he can’t remember the color of that damn jacket.

But the house—oh, he can still see the house.  The hard wood floors, the white walls dotted in paintings and photos, family memorabilia in the den at the back.  A museum of trinkets for pilots and diplomats and an overwhelming style of Coruscant despite the neighborhood being in the southern edge outside of the main city.  The large windows letting in the light, the furniture old and worn and comfortable and clean.

He’s clenching his teeth, struggling to breathe as the corners of his eyes burn.

“Ben?”  Han mutters, and Kylo swallows again, fighting something that’s threatening to burst from his throat.

“Kylo.”  He says at last, and he cracks halfway through it.  He clears his throat.  “It’s Kylo.”

Han doesn’t speak for a long time, and Kylo is certain that his phone is cracking beneath the pressure of his fingers.  His heartbeat is thrumming along his nerves and veins, pulsing beneath his skin, and he just wants to drown in whiskey.

“Kylo,” Han repeats.  It’s, without a doubt, the strangest thing to ever come from his lips.  “It’ll take some getting used to, if you can bear with your old man.”

Kylo lets out a breath, mouth trembling as he struggles to find words.  A hot tear rolls down his cheek.

 

* * *

 

 _Maybe I lost weight_  
_I'm playing hooky with the best of the best_  
_Put my heart on my chest, so that you can see it too_

 

* * *

 

He buries his face into her hair, breathing deeply as the heat of her body seeps into his chest, along his legs, into his hands where he has them pressed to her abdomen, folded neatly.  She’s nestled against him, leaning her head against his shoulder with her eyes fixed on the screen across the room, and she hums quietly when he presses his lips to her temple.  She turns her head, smiling faintly.

Kylo shifts, letting his touch roam; his hands slide along her sides, down the under of her arms, fingers slipping around her wrists before snaking in between her own and lacing them.  She squeezes, and he smiles as she tilts her head, noses brushing, and eyes closing, with a breath ghosting over his face—

When he wakes, then, it’s dark.  Something digs, twists, pulls and rips inside of his chest, and he is aware of the box with white tucked into his headboard, all but whispering to him with promises of cool, numbing absolutes.  But they’re harsh, and cold, and they grow louder and louder until the whispers are shouts that are making his ears rings, and he just wants to fucking scream.

He’s alone, gritting his teeth in the cold of his room as he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes until he’s seeing stars and the sockets ache.  Tremors race through his veins, dancing on the ends of his nerves to make him shake.  He inhales shakily, teeth clicking as he shivers.  His gut is burning, churning and bubbling and he’s almost certain he’s going to be sick.  His tongue is dry, but there’s a tingling in his cheeks, and a sinister want cuts between his lungs and leaves him breathless.

Threading his fingers into his hair, he feels a buzzing running from behind his pillow.  Reaching for it, Kylo pulls his phone free, squinting in the dark.

_Can’t sleep?_

Under any other circumstance he might frown at the nature of the question, but Rey… Rey knows him.  And he knows her.  And they can’t explain it beyond that.

 _Apparently not_.

The dots appear in their thread, before vanishing, and then her name is flashing on his phone, an image of her bringing a smile to his lips. 

“Yes?”  He answers, curling onto his side with the phone tucked between his pillow and his head.

“You all right?”  Her voice is tired, and there’s a pang in his gut that surges to his throat.

“Mm,” it’s under a breath, and exhausted, but it’s honest.  “Trying to be.”

“I know,” he can hear a quiet laugh under the vowel, and his smile widens as he relaxes.  “Was it good?  Before you couldn’t sleep?”

_You… stars—_

“Yes.  It was.  And then I woke up.”

“What was it about?”

He hesitates, swallowing slowly. 

“Us.”

She hums, and he presses the phone closer to his ear, as if beckoning the sound to linger.

“Good to know that makes you happy.”

“Of course it does.”  He says quickly, warmth trickling down the side of his neck, seeping passed his collarbones and to his sternum.  “But what are you doing awake?”

“I was sleeping.  Nice dream.  Us.  And then I woke up, too.  Couldn’t breathe at first.  When it stopped, I just…  I don’t know.  Thought I’d check on you.”

His heart thuds against his ribs, the heat pooling below his lungs. 

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

_I'm walking the long road, watching the sky fall_

 

* * *

 

 

Burying himself into the files before him, he’s only half-listening to the presentation for the monthly reports.  His eyes are darting across every other line, soaking in accounts of raising profits, new partnerships, expansion of First Order across the nation.  On one page he reads about Alliance losing another of its companies, its foothold weakening in Republic’s interests, and another recounts gains and losses for the period.

There’s a tightness coiling around his throat, and he breathes deeply as he reads.  He should feel proud for all that they’ve accomplished so quickly, knowing that he’s had a hand in all of this.  The changing balance of political and economic power has all been for the sake of creating a better world.  He should feel grateful.

But there’s poison sitting in his gut, burning and festering and bubbling up against his ribs, making him hot, making him sweat, and his heart is thumping erratically, murmurs pressing to the surface of his skin. 

Alliance is crumbling, and will soon be toppled by the wave of First Order.  The Republic, should they stretch the line of patience and prosperity too long, will be bought outright, and dismantled.  Trajectories have First Order becoming the superpower of the nation by the end of the year, with hands reaching into the pockets of the states, the senate, even into those of the leading powers.

Kylo leans back into his seat, steeling his face, his heart, trying to calm his breath.  When he looks up, across the room, all eyes are focused on the presenter, except one pair—deftly focused on him.

Snoke.

 

* * *

 

  _The lace in your dress tingles my neck, how do I live?  
_

 

* * *

 

 

It’s afternoon when he pulls to the front of her shop—a massive place, as she had once told him—with large glass windows at the front and a massive door proudly displaying the name.  _Kenobi and Co._ , with listed hours and marks of sales and services.  He ignores the lump in his throat as he kills the engine of his car and slips out of it, thankful under the heat of the sun that he’d settled on a light sweater and pair of jeans instead of his usual dark attire.

Stepping onto the curb, he crosses to the door and slips inside, sighing as cool air kisses his face and blows his hair back, the door swinging shut behind him with a ring of a bell.  There are counters lined on one wall, dotted with screens and brochures.  The concrete floors are poured, marbled, and glimmering under the light.  A large wall separates the front office from what he’s sure is the work space, and he can heart the whir and rattle of machinery.

There’s a click of a door, and the machinery is loud and buzzing, and Kylo turns to see Rey stepping from within the shop with an older man in tow behind her.  Her hair is mussed, the buns squished flat against the back of her head, no doubt from any kind of mask or helmet she may have just been wearing.  There’s sweat in her hairline, grease and dirt mucking her fingers and palms and dotting up her arms.  Her shirt is sleeveless, cropped just above her navel with heavy cargo pants hanging at her hips. 

He might consider it impractical if she didn’t look so ravishing.

Her eyes light up when she sees him.  “You’re here!  I just finished the last one!” 

She’s brilliant and bright, and the man behind her gives Kylo a slow look.  He ignores him for a moment, swallowing slowly before returning his attention to Rey.  “You said three, so here I am.”

Rey grins, squinting in her own way with a scrunch of her nose.  “I’ve got to clean up and we’ll go, yeah?”  He nods, and she turns to her older counterpart at her back.  “Oh!  Obi, this is Kylo.  Kylo, this is my boss, Obi-Wan.  Shop keep.”

Kylo glances at the white haired man, dressed in a heavy brown shirt and work pants.  A full beard envelopes his jaw, and wraps around his mouth, but Kylo can see the tight-lipped smile that doesn’t quite reach the man’s eyes. 

“Hello there,” he says, his Coruscanti vowels less pronounced with his age by comparison to Rey, and Kylo nods his head.

“Pleasure.”

“I’ll be right back,” Rey remarks, disappearing back into the shop.  Kylo feels the breath escape him, and he slumps.  Obi-Wan watches him closely, before shuffling around to the space behind the counter.

“Kylo, huh?”  He says, and Kylo clenches his jaw.

“Yes.”

“Grew tired of your name?”

Kylo says nothing, glancing out the window.  Obi-Wan waits, snorts, and shakes his head.  When Kylo spares him a look, he regrets it as he sees the fading sad smile. 

“Han said you called.  I’m proud of you.”

Kylo clenches his jaw, bowing his head.  “I would prefer word not spread too quickly.”

“I understand.  Does Rey know?”

Kylo’s hesitation is all the answer Obi-Wan undoubtedly needs, and the old man sighs.

“Ben—”

“Don’t.”  Kylo says, and the door opens again.  Rey steps into the office, her hands mostly cleaned, and a bag slung across her shoulder.

“Ready?”  She asks, and if she feels the tension palpitating between him and his godfather, she says nothing.

“Yes,” Kylo clips, forcing a smile for her.

 

* * *

 

 _I'm cutting my mind off_  
_It feels like my heart is going to burst_

 

* * *

 

 

The lift slows and rings, and the doors slide open.  Phasma’s blonde cut is slicked back, not a lock out of place, and her gaze is as cold as the steel at his back.  Kylo nods in her wake, stepping aside as she enters the space. 

“Hux came to me today,” she says simply, her arms folded behind her back, a file in her hand.  Kylo stares at her blurred reflection in the steel wall across from them.  “With some information regarding a girl.”

His breath catches, but he remains still.  “What girl?”

“Rey.  You know her?”

“Depends.  I know a lot of people.”

“Ren,” Phasma says slowly, her tone even and hard.  Kylo waits, and she sighs.  “Whatever you’re doing, you’d best have a damn good reason for it.”

“I hardly think an affiliation with a mechanic calls for an investigation.”  He chides, eyeing her from his peripheral. 

“Hux and Snoke seem to disagree.”

“Let them.  This is not their concern.”

“Your personal affairs, usually, are not my business, but when it interferes with the work I do, that changes.  Instead of handling contacts and accounts, I am now playing private investigator for a woman with no family, who’s been working the same job for several years, and lives in the substandard outer rim of the city.  Why am I doing this, Ren?”

Kylo breathes heavily, and the lift chimes again.  “Snoke believes she is distracting me.”

“Is she?”

“No more than anything else I’ve paid interest in,” he retorts, glowering.

Phasma allows a beat, and a small sigh.  “I don’t like this.”

“You think I do?”

“No,” she says softly.  The lift rings, signaling their arrival to the lobby.  Bringing her hands round, she passes the folder into his grasp.  “Be careful, Ren.”

She exits the lift without another word, and when Kylo opens it, the first thing he sees is a photo—it’s of him, and Rey, and they’re on their bench in the park.  Her hand is curled into a fist, hiding the bag he’d given her, the opposite laced with his hand. 

 

* * *

 

_And, when you think of me, am I the best you ever had?_

 

* * *

 

Water cascades from the showerhead, soaking through his hair, rolling in rivers across his shoulders, down his arms and back.  He’s shivering despite the steam wafting in thick curtains around him, floating up to the ceiling.  His fingers dig and cut into the tile work, teeth chattering as he squeezes his eyes shut.

His nostrils burn, the numbing sensation thickening at the back of his throat as his world pulses.  Pleasure spikes within his bones, a moan resting heavy on his tongue as water rolls and warms his hips and thighs. 

He shouldn’t have—he’s to be looking to get help, she even said she’ll go with him, she’ll be here at his side if he wants it.  And, oh, does he want her.  But he’s weak, and he’s crippling beneath a looming darkness that haunts his sleep and suffocates him in his dreams, and he so often wakes wanting to scream that it’s a wonder he doesn’t just bury his head in power and bathe in whiskey.

It would certainly be easier.

But then he thinks of her, of her eyes, her voice, the sound of her laughter.  The way she lights up when she talks about mechanics and her friends, the way she holds his hands, the look in her eyes when he catches her staring. 

Deep down, Kylo knows that the wave of disappointment that fills his gut isn’t entirely his own; he presses his nails to the wall, raking them, feeling grout chip and flake as he claws the shower wall.  The churning acid swells, calms, and abates after a few moments, and he sighs deeply.

He presses his forehead to the cool tile, lips trembling as he imagines her hands on his body, nimble fingers working out the knots, the tension, her light slipping under his skin and healing and soothing the cracks and chips and pieces of him that aren’t quite right, or whole.  She hasn’t seen, not really, the true ugliness that settles beneath his cool smile, but she knows it, feels it, and in her own way she cradles and comforts him, slotting herself into the cracks. 

Kylo remembers the night he saw her, how the world melted and every inch of him focused on her.  The way he could round a corner and still know precisely where she stood, could hear her laugh over the music, over his buzz.  Even now, with pupils blown black and the water looking more and more incandescent than ever, he thinks her hands are on his face, soothing and stroking, her whisper at the shell of his ear.

 

* * *

 

_Share one more drink with me, smile even though you're sad_

 

* * *

 

 

His insides are twisting and pulling, and his heart is racing as he comes up upon the exterior stonework and heavy wood doors.  A summer breeze ruffles his hair in front of his eyes, dipping under the light fabric of his sweater.  Swallowing thickly, Kylo fumbles with the hem before checking his watch again.  He’s running a handful of minutes late, but can delay no longer. 

Ignoring the sweat at the back of his neck, he inhales deeply.  Wanting this to go well, he finds himself rubbing at his nose, an itch clawing at the back of his throat.  He shakes himself of the sensation, licking his lips, before reaching for the handle.

Crossing the threshold of the café doors, Kylo turns and makes his way toward the usual booth that he and Rey often occupy.  There’s a nagging guilt for the time in the depths of his gut as he comes upon the leather and the table, but it calms and abates when Rey’s eyes meet his, her smile melting the ice in his shoulders. 

Across from her are two figures, men he’s seen before but hardly know.  One is dark in complexion, with a full and wide mouth and rich, chocolate brown eyes.  They’re deeper than Rey’s, harder, but glinting under the light of the overhead lamp.  The man beside him has rich, full hair, faint flecks of silver at the temples, an ashen stubble framing his jaw.  His own eyes are a rich mocha, and Kylo spares a glance amongst the three of them, a hesitant smile forming.

“Boys, this is Kylo,” Rey’s voice carries to his ear, and she stands to his side.  A hand presses to his shoulder, warm, gentle, and he admires the curl neatly tucked behind her ear.  “Kylo, this is Poe, and Finn.”

“Good to meet you, Kylo,” Poe says with a smile that crinkles his eyes.  Finn gives a nod, and his own smile.

“Likewise,” Kylo breathes, taking a seat beside Rey.  Her hand seeks purchase in his own beneath the table, and he laces their fingers, giving her hand a squeeze. 

 

* * *

 

_I'm walking the long road, watching the sky fall_

 

* * *

 

 

He dreams of himself again, falling from the top of First Order.  Glass rains around him, hair a lighter shade than his own flying around his face.  His own image, staring him down as he falls, is cold and unfeeling, with hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks.  There’s blood at the nose, and then he’s too far, the world whipping up around him too fast.  He reaches up, seeing hands smaller, browner than his own, fingertips stained.

Kylo sits upright, gasping, sweating, clawing at his blankets and sheets as a ghost of a scream tears itself from his throat.  His heart aches, pounding in his ears and in his lungs, the pulse vibrating against his skin with each breath as he grits his teeth and digs his nails into his palms.  His knuckles push into his eyes, forcing the stars and the buzzing as he begs for the images of his nightmare to fade.

It’s always the same, when it’s like this—always seeing himself, clean cut and dressed to the nines and looking like death itself as he falls.  And he _knows_ he is not in his own body when he falls, but he _cannot_ —no.  No, _no_ , _no…_

Panting, he drops his hands, ignoring the welts in his skin, the burning as blood rushing to the front of his face.  He fumbles for his phone, blinking wearily at the time when the screen blinds him.

There are no new messages, and it’s almost three am.

 

* * *

 

 _The death of a bachelor seems so fitting for happily ever after  
_ _How could I ask for more?_

 

* * *

 

He’s trying not to shake as he stands before rain-sloughed windows—an odd storm for the dead of summer.  His hands are at his sides, fingers restless, the tie around his throat pulling more and more until he’s sure he’s suffocating, sweating beneath a cotton dress shirt and his jacket.

Lifting his gaze, Kylo can see the ghostly image of Snoke over his shoulder in the reflection of the glass, hardened eyes framed by ashen flesh and deep-cutting scars. 

They know her.  _They know—_

“Had you been properly compliant, this wouldn’t be so difficult,” Snoke says, his voice easy and cool, as though he were remarking on the rain, or the green of the hills to the north.  But Kylo’s insides are being torn apart piece by piece with each word, and there’s something lingering in the air long after Snoke has left his side that continues to leech beneath his sleeves and seize him by the veins.

“For two months, I gave you the freedom to come clean to me,” Snoke drones, words crisp in their finality, and Kylo dips his head, staring at his feet.  “And you repay me with weakness?  Spending your days with someone who works with a known Alliance supporter?  Disappointing, Ren.  _Very_ disappointing.”

He raises his head, staring out into the city, the skyline, the grey clouds blanketing as far as the horizon will allow.  He swallows thickly, ignoring the welling in his throat, the thrumming beneath his skin, curling himself around the warmth that’s seeding itself in his heart.  Snoke’s words are icy, dripping with acidic threats that sizzle and cut into him, but that warmth is impenetrable and calming, and he takes a breath.

They are words.  Just words.  For he can feel her, and she is calm, and she is safe, and she—oh, she must be happy, because thinking of her eases the tension in his brow and quells the rage bubbling behind his eyes and teeth.  His shoulders sag, and Kylo turns his head to the south, picturing her street, her shop, seeing her bent over an engine with her curls sticking to her cheeks with sweat and grease.

He hears Snoke moving, the old man’s footsteps shuffling, and Kylo turns his head to regard him slowly.  The sudden serenity that’s filling his soul must reflect on his face, for Snoke gives a pause, raising a hairless brow, his warped mouth pursing into a fine line.

“Have you nothing to say?”

He has plenty of words to say, but even the reserve he garners from her, and from how he feels, he knows he cannot be risky.  He cannot let his selfishness get the better of him, no matter how satisfying in the moment it might be to lash out at his mentor.  Because in the grand scheme of this game, of the part he’s been playing for years now in Snoke’s plans, he has enough to get by, to build himself should things go awry.

Rey may not have those opportunities.  In fact, though he’s loathe to consider her anything other than perfectly capable of handling herself, he _knows_ she doesn’t.  What little she has to her name has been accumulated through struggles he’ll never understand, and it is so precious to her.  He will not ruin that—ruin _her_ —so that he may retaliate verbally against his employer.

Inhaling deeply, Kylo bows his head in an attempt of pardon, and he glances carefully at Snoke.  “If I may, while it may seem as though I have been distracted, I have done every task asked of me.  I have not wavered in my ethic, or my productivity.  I’ve not forgotten our mission, or our prospects for Republic and Alliance.”  The words are sour on his tongue.  “If anything, I’m better, now.”

It’s a stab in the dark to sway his mentor, but Snoke isn’t having it.

“Giving up one addiction for another is hardly as accomplishing as you might think it to be, Ren.”

He pales, swallowing deeply, and Snoke’s eyes narrow dangerously as he continues.

“Be done with her.  Or I will end this façade for you.”

“I think I can handle my own affairs—”

“ _Do you_?”  Snoke’s eyes, dark and seething, wander his face, and Kylo might swear that he feels something snaking into his bones, seizing and twisting him.  His knees buckle, like a weight—an outside pressure—commanding him to kneel.  “You think yourself so astute, so mature.  Your compassion blinds and weakens you.  If you wish to act like a child, you will be treated as such.  Disobey me, and you will lose your toy.”

 

* * *

 

_A lifetime of laughter_

 

* * *

 

 

He rakes his fingers through his hair, clenching his jaw as he sighs deeply into the receiver of his cell phone, teeth worrying at his lip before he glances at the clock again.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he says, swallowing thickly as the arms tick closer to the hour.

“Yes, you can,” Rey breathes, and he hears a shuffling on her end of the line before a door closes.  He called her while she’s working, and while he doesn’t mean to distract her from her duties, his mind is screaming and his heart refuses to calm, and an insatiable need to hear her voice has been twisting his insides all morning.  “You’re struggling, not weak.  Not incapable.”

“You think so highly of me,” he laughs, and it’s flat and hollow, and he tries not to wince as he sees his reflection in the mirror hanging above an armchair. 

“You’re damn right, I do,” her voice is strong and sure, and Kylo feels his heart press to the base of his throat, suffocating him in the best ways.  He sighs, sinking down onto the leather couch, fingers digging into a cool cushion as he gnaws at his lip again. 

“What time are you off tonight?”  He asks, fingers trembling as he runs them along his scalp again, cupping the back of his neck as he leans back against the couch.  The white walls and ceiling stretch up and up, yet in the afternoon light pouring in from a window they seem claustrophobically heavy. 

“’Round seven, or so?  Whenever the Obi lets me out, really,” she says, and there’s a rustling again, like she’s moving papers.  A door clicks, and there’s a muffled voice that he recognizes, and her quiet _All right_ in response before her words are back in his ear, crisp and warm.  “I’ve got to go.  If you’re worried, I can call and make the appointment.  All you’d have to do is go.”

He contemplates this, memorizing the warped textures of the ceiling.  She’d told him, what feels now like an eternity ago, of someone who could help, someone he could talk to that wasn’t her.  To help, she’d said, to get it all out, so that he can move forward.  But there’s a tremor in his spine as he thinks of the cold sweats, the overwhelming pressure of the dark, of the tickling in his throat, the void in his core, the blind and vile panic that he wakes up in, and he’s still, even now, unsure that _seeing someone_ and _talking_ about his problems will help.  

Kylo inhales again, hiding his eyes behind his fingers.  He has to do this.  He knows he has to.  Even as the itch clings and claws and cuts him from the inside out, the jitters in his fingers and the darkness in his dreams, he needs to fight.  She told him she’ll stand by him, if he wants it. 

It’s more than want, though.  His heart stutters and he whispers a shaking “Yeah, if you could.  Thank you, Rey.”

“You’re welcome, Kylo.  I’ll call you when I’m off, we’ll get dinner, yeah?”

He smiles, and he knows she is, too.  “Perfect.”

She ends the call, and he lets out a breath he wasn’t aware of holding.  His phone slips and falls onto the cushion of the chair at his side, and he brings trembling fingers to his face, hiding behind them as he struggles to breathe.  He has to do this.  He has to get himself cleaned up and right and proper. 

Between his dreams, and Snoke bearing down on his neck, everything inside of him screams for a line, for a drink, for a chance to get high and forget about everything.  To float in numb, cool, beautiful bliss is more tantalizing than the sweetest of treats, but then she comes to mind with her smile and the glint in her eye when the sun shines on her face, and she is more than all of that. 

He leans against the chair, gulping quietly on a breath as he smooths his hair back against his skull.  His fingers tease and curl around the back of his neck, massaging gently.  The jitters are hard enough to explain to people like Finn and Poe, but the nosebleeds are the worst, and he and Rey have systematically found ways of dancing around it—allergies for the nosebleeds, migraines from withdrawal are really due to poor sleep, _after all his desk job is pretty mentally taxing—_

It’s all bullshit, and he’s had _enough_.

Cursing himself, Kylo stumbles through the living room and into the kitchen, his muscles and veins crying out and thrumming painfully as he fumbles through the cabinets, finding a fifth left from he could only imagine when.  Popping the top off, he brings it to his lips, the liquid only faintly sloshing when he stops.

The smell makes his mouth water, his teeth chattering against the glass.  Even as his hands shake, he lowers it, staring hard at the label, at the amber.

Swallowing thickly, he breathes deeply, filling his lungs, quieting the shouting in his head.  He walks deeper into the kitchen, tilting the bottle, and dumping its contents down the drain.

 

_At the expense of the death of a bachelor_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus fucking Christ this chapter was a beast.  
> Admittedly, I'm not overly pleased with it. It's definitely not my favorite, but it's necessary. If it feels all over, that's intentional. Kylo's got some shit going on in his head (ayoo withdrawal) and so it's gonna feel imbalanced.  
> ALSO I'M REALLY SORRY I WANTED TO ELABORATE MORE WITH THE STORMPILOT BUT I JUST COULDN'T MAKE IT IN A WAY THAT MADE ME HAPPEN SO IT'LL BE MORE PRESENT LATER I PROMISE <3  
> and yeah.  
> Sorry, this one's really not that good >.> but it's long so yay?


	10. Golden Days

_Oh don't you wonder when the light begins to fade?_  
_And the clock just makes the colors turn to grey_  
_Forever young or growing older just the same_  
_All the memories that we make will never change_

 

His knee is bouncing, hands folded in front of him as he waits with impatience flooding his bones like a toxin, the sterile white of the room around him thrumming at the edges of his vision.  There’s a large window open to a small garden behind the building, cool colored furniture enveloping the space, and stock paintings dotting the wall.  It’s all painfully staged and suffocating, and Kylo feels ready to leap from his skin when the door opens.

The woman who enters regards him with a calm, warm smile, her hair pulled from her face as she lets the door shut with a quiet click.  Her hands are free to extend to him, shaking his own palm, her fingers soft and warm against his tremors.  With careful eyes and a gentle voice, she introduces herself to him with compassion, but the name doesn’t stick.

He has a mantra pulsing in his veins, reminding that this is just as much for Rey as it is for him, and Kylo slowly sinks back into the white couch he’d previously been sitting upon.  The woman takes a seat across a small table from him, her own hands folded together as she smiles.

Kylo knows she’s waiting for him to speak—this, of course, is about him, after all.  She is but the springboard for his thoughts and troubles to find meaning from, and he knows she cannot coax him out of his shell so early on.  But the trembling in his body courses like fire, and Kylo shakes his head slowly as the clock above her head ticks like church bells.

“It’s all right,” she tells him, her voice and expression no more assuring than the tag line from the lobby reciting some nonsense about the facility being _a safe haven for all in need_.  Swallowing thickly, Kylo knits his fingers together.

In truth, he’s unsure of where to begin, and the dam that holds back the flooding of his childhood chips.  The world is starting to flicker and blacken, and there’s a cool bottle of water being pressed into his anxious, twitching fingers.  He looks to her, his gaze wavering back and forth between her two kind grey eyes, and he feels like screaming.

 

* * *

 

“What’s this one?”

He glances over, peering at the photo delicately held between her fingers.  He’s there, with his mother and father on either side of him, three of them squinting under the summer sunlight as his child-self clutches his bag.  He remembers that day, and his heart swells.

“I was nine,” he tells her, shifting closer so that his shoulder brushes hers, and he can smell shea on her skin.  “I’d come home from this camp that the academy I went to was holding.  My grandfather took his photo.”

“You look adorable,” Rey says, and he catches her grinning in the corner of his eye.  Chuckling quietly, Kylo dips his head and rests it against her arm.  “Your parents—they look familiar?”

He swallows slowly, and hums.  “You might know of them.  Leia Organa and Han Solo.”

“Han Solo?”  Rey quips, and she shifts under him.  When he straightens, and meets her eyes, he finds them wide with wonder.  “The pilot?  The most famous smuggler in the last forty years?”

Kylo snorts, and nods.  “Yes.”

“Your father is Han Solo,” Rey trails off, her eyes remaining focused even as she shifts her gaze back to the photo.  “And Leia—the Alliance activist?”

“Alliance founder.”  Kylo corrects, and Rey’s smile widens once more.

“Four months and you never told me that,” she mumbles, and he watches as she traces his boyish face with a steady finger.

“I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out sooner,” he admits, feeling her tilt her head to rest against the top of his.

“Forgive me for not being intimately familiar with your parents’ faces,” Rey huffs, and Kylo snorts against her shoulder.  Still, looking at the photo twists and churns something old and hurting inside of him.

“We aren’t on good terms right now, anyway,” the acid tickles and burns the back of his throat, and Kylo shies away from her then.  He busies his hands, fumbling through the box of photos they’d pulled from the depths of his closet.  He doesn’t remember packing any of these items—albums and old memorabilia—but there’s a layer of dust that smells like pine and leather, and his muscles relax.

“Why?”

Clenching his jaw, he opens his mouth, wanting to speak, but the weight of unspoken truths rests heavy on his tongue.  He goes slack, energy dissipating from his body, and he’s grateful that she cannot see his face. 

“As I got older, we fought a lot.  Differing opinions on my future once my schooling was done.  It just—it wasn’t good.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Kylo rummages through papers and envelopes of photos, before finding one yellowed and crinkling under the pressure of his fingers.  Withdrawing it slowly, he finds it marked with a date nearly ten years old.

“I’m sorry,” Rey says at last.

Humming quietly, Kylo thumbs the envelope open, a photo of his late grandparents sliding out.  The edges are worn, the image somewhat faded, but Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Amidala both look as radiant as ever in their elder years.  His heart twists, and Kylo feels a breath ghost between his teeth, hovering in the back of his throat. 

 “Why did you leave?”  Rey asks.  Blinking slowly, Kylo ignores the itching, burning, ravenous desire for escape that swells and festers in his lungs, and he tenderly sets the photo aside to be properly stored later.

He doesn’t blame her curiosity—not in the slightest.  Licking his lips slowly, he smooths his hair back before peering at her over his shoulder.  Her brown eyes are hard, but warm, and the tension in her brow relaxes some.  She reaches out, sliding her hand under his arm to take his own, their fingers lacing.  She's waiting for him to speak, and he knows he owes it to her.  He swallows thickly, giving her hand a squeeze.

“I never really had friends,” he says softly, looking away from her for a moment.  “The only real one I valued was my grandfather.  He was there for all of my firsts, was my comfort when Han was away.  He supported my dreams and accomplishments, and pushed me to do my absolute best even if it meant I was alone amongst my peers.

“When he died, I was… rightfully distraught.  My parents shared in my grief, but they didn’t understand what my grandfather meant to me.  I suppose I just… I spiraled.  I fell into habits that soothed the surface wounds and covered the rest, and I wanted to pretend that I could be as good and as great as he had been.  I wanted to finish his ambitions of being a part of a greater and more tolerant world.  And I felt I couldn’t do that at home.”

She’s watching him with patient eyes, and Kylo swallows thickly, squeezing her hand in his.

“They had good intentions, but were terrible at— _being_ there.  Han traveled more and more, and Leia became so invested in her work at Alliance, and they decided it was better to ignore this cavity that was left behind when my grandfather passed away.  And… I became bitter, and angry.  I refused to falter under their shadows and let mine and my grandfather’s dreams be left at the wayside, while also lashing out at them over everything.  So I left.  I went to find my place elsewhere, and… it hasn’t exactly been what I wanted.”

There’s a skittering sensation that crawls along his skin, slipping under and setting his veins afire, and his fingers are trembling in her hold until she comes and presses close, her arms wrapping around his shoulders.  She’s so small, and slight, but her embrace is strong and warm, and the security that folds around him stifles him until he chokes quietly, burying his face into the curve of her arm.

Rey holds him for a long while, her warmth and light and compassion soothing the crackling, burning, white-hot need of his to scream out.  If not for the bubbling whispers and plucking, pulling, pinching prickling that sinks and suffocates him from the inside out, he’s certain the agony of home would leave him breathless.

 “You miss them.”  Her words are soft against the back of his head, her voice a lullaby through the waves of his hair.

“Yes,” he replies, voice cracking under the onslaught of emotion and pride.  “Always.”

“Have you contacted them?”

He hesitates, and nods, knowing that hiding his face does not stop her from feeling his tears against her skin. 

“What’s stopping you from going home?”

His grip on her hand tightens, and she squeezes right back.  He thinks of the tower, the steel and the glass and the adorning red drapes and jewels.  Snoke’s garish face looms in the back of his mind, and Hux’s snarl, Phasma’s stoic composure.  He hasn’t gone back because he knows the ruin that will follow will be catastrophic.  He knows that they’ll appeal to Republic, or just buy them, and make a quick attempt to crush Alliance.  He knows that they’ll spread their talons like a cloud over the city, snuffling the light of those he cares for—Maz’s cantina will crumble, the shop Rey and Obi-Wan operate within will be shut down.

As if the destruction of his old life wasn’t bad enough, the world he’s built and molding now will implode, and it will be entirely his fault.

“Everything?”  He answers, a weak chuckle accompanying his aching chest, and he feels her fingers tucking his hair away, wiping his tears.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” she makes it sound so simple and easy, and he wants to believe her wholeheartedly.

It’s an ideal, truly, and he wonders what it must be like to be like her—to live simply, to not have this weight.  Tension creeps and pulls at every fragmented piece of his soul, and he presses his back more firmly into her arms, wondering what it must be like to be free of such pain.

She complies, seating herself against the arm of the couch, cradling his massive frame.  Her hands are callused and coarse, but her touch is soft and gentle, and she hums something that sinks into his heart.  He cannot be too hard, too critical of her naivety—she only asks to understand, and he won’t fault her for offering a simplistic route.  It’s the only one she knows against the backdrop of her world, and she makes it the olive branch for his black and bleary reality.

And there are parts of him that are faltering, the sway of her light touching his core and melting into the cracks of his soul.  The façade he’s spent so long manifesting and perfecting over the years is crumbling within his shaking hands, fading into white and amber.  Yet from it are flowers of his childhood, hope blossoming like the daisy print against her shirt with a breeze that smells like their spot at the park. 

And he knows he should tell her, knows that he needs to own up to the rest of his shameful life, but then he sees her, marvels at the way she lives and breathes simplistically, and he can’t.  For she has created her happiness from nothing, molded it all on her own, and he, perhaps, is too selfish to burden her with the dark of steel, red, and scars.

Pulling her arms tighter around himself, Kylo presses his mouth to her hands and wrists, wrapping himself in her until the heat of her body nearly overwhelms him.

 

* * *

 

They go to the diner to meet with Finn and Poe, falling back into their routine of a weekly luncheon.  The summer evening is surprisingly cool, with a handful of clouds to provide the occasional wisp of shade, but even then Kylo is dressed in black with his hair hanging thick around his shoulders.  Finn remarks that for all his time with their Rey of sunshine, he’s still white as a sheet, and Poe regards him carefully.

It's a tentative dance, even now so long after having met.  They don’t know—can’t know—and Rey respects the jittering need for his addictions to remain private, even if her eyes disagree.  But there’s an acute sense of caution, and he can feel their eyes lingering longer than normal at the shadows in his face, the nervous chatter of his teeth against his glass of water.  And he can see Poe counting the times he brings his fingers to dab at the edges of his nose.

 

* * *

 

He wakes in a sticky, suffocating kind of heat that’s curling around his throat and saturating every fiber of his being like syrup.  His mouth feels gummy, the edges of his mouth chapped as he rolls, groaning and swallowing thickly.  Fumbling off the bed, he digs the heels of his palms into both eye sockets, inhaling as deeply as his quivering lungs will allow before trudging through the hot, damp dark down the hall and into his bathroom.

Not bothering with the light, Kylo reaches out to feel for the faucet, fingers finding the cool steel knobs before twisting the one on the right, water gushing and running into the sink and over his fingers, cool, then cold, then like ice.  He basins his hands and slurps greedily, choking as thirst overwhelms him even as his throat protests.

There are tremors racing along the ends of his fingers, surging up his arms and across his chest, patterned out like a spider web that crosses his frame and sinks down to his toes.  Bumps raise beneath the surface of his skin, and a line of muscles in his back twitch in sequence, pinching up between where his spine meets his neck.  He bows his head, fingers dipping and digging into the cut of the countertop, water continuing to pour into the sink.

A dull pulsing beats in tandem with his heart between his eyes, flaring and pinching and prickling at his temples, static racing over the dome of his scalp before singing like fire and acid.  Gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes, he shakes his head, and he can feel his nails chipping into the porcelain and granite.

He’s not sure what’s worse—the constant, insufferable craving, or the pin-prick sensations, the crippling migraines, the debilitating nightmares, the moments where he fades out of himself and comes back shaking and sweating as though he’s half-crazed and completely ruined.  There’s an itch that thrums and swells behind the skin and muscle and tendon, burrowed so deep into his very bones that he feels like he’s perpetually rattling himself raw.

Scraping his fingers against his face, the cool beads that smear over the bridge of his nose and at the corners of his eyes provide a temporary relief.  A sigh fills his mouth, lingering on his tongue before whispering out in curses, and his hand twists the knob to silence the water.

 

* * *

 

He tries therapy again, barely getting more than a handful of sentences out about his grandfather’s passing before he’s biting so hard into the back of his hand that his knuckles threaten to bleed.

She suggests medication to help with anxiety and depression.

 

* * *

 

They’re sitting on their bench in the park, some fruity tea clenched between her hands, her hair pulled back and off her neck.  The light of the afternoon sun is all but glowing off her freckled skin, and he can’t keep his gaze from wandering down the smooth lines of her arms, the slender frame of her hips, or the toned curves of her calves.

She catches him, of course, staring more than once, and ice-soaked fingers brush along his wrist before twining with his own.  He offers her a careful smile, a nearby child’s playing scream pulling at the raw edges around his eyes, and her hand squeezes his gentle.

There’s a kind of relief in her knowing and understanding, a weight lifting off his chest more and more with every reassurance she gives.  That even if he can’t vocalize the turmoil beneath his skin, the angry and ragged gnawing that ravishes his center and pulse, she still knows.  And her hands, cold as they may be from her drink, are safe and worn, comforting and strong.

She tightens her grip, raising their hands slowly.  Kylo turns his head, watching her mouth purse as she leaves her breath against his knuckles, warm and light, hovering over the dent he’s left there.  The thrumming in his core beats in tandem to his heart, losing pace momentarily when the curve of her smile widens, and her eyes fall to his lips.

And there is a serenity in the pause where her eyes are focused, something shifting in them that pulls his soul apart.  She is a tidal wave of tranquility and endless compassion, and she blinks slowly to look to him.  His heart is in his throat, and there are a thousand things he wants to say, and a thousand more he wants to do to show her exactly what she means to him.

But he hesitates, his own gaze wandering across the freckles on her cheeks, the bow of her lips, the hollow between her collarbones before cool fingers grace the back of his neck, her hand guiding his head.  And it only takes a small breath before he’s following her in, tasting summer and starlight on her tongue.

 

* * *

 

Another day passes that he avoids the office, and finds himself instead pulling up to the front of the shop.  There are heat waves rolling off of the pavement, and Kylo ignores the beads of sweat that are gathering in his hairline as he slips out from his car and under the garish light of the afternoon. 

Ducking his head down, he shuffles up onto the sidewalk before reaching for the door, wincing as the sun-soaked metal handle tingles against his fingertips.  He steps inside to a kiss of air-conditioning and glistening concrete, the whir of machinery and tools buzzing behind the wall of the main office.  From behind the main counter, Obi-Wan lifts his balding, white head, a rare and delicate smile pulling more at the corners of his eyes than his mouth.

“Hello there,” he says, shuffling from his place to come round the large bend of laminate and wood.  “Rey’s busy at the moment, but her lunch is soon.”

“I know,” Kylo says slowly, stuffing his hands into his pockets before glancing out the open window front of the office.  “I figured I’d stop by a bit early.”

“I’m glad you did,” Obi-Wan says, folding his arms in front of his chest.  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“About?”  He doesn’t mean to be incredulous, but his edges are sore from talking, and he’s come to accept that Rey is the only person who doesn’t leave him aching like that.

“About you?  You are still my godson.  And I hate that I know so little of the man Rey cares deeply for.”

He blinks, a gentle thrumming vibrating from his throat to his gut, swarming around his heart and his lungs, and he feels the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.  “I know.  I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.  You’ve been through much.  Now’s the opportunity to move forward.”  Obi-Wan assures, a kindness behind his words that sweeps over the pin-pricked layers of Kylo’s crumbling walls.  He swallows slowly, nodding once as he looks once more out the window.

“I’m trying,” he breathes, his gaze narrowing as a dark, sleek car rolls slowly along the street.  Anywhere else he might not have given it a second thought, but the model matches his own, the windows tinted so heavy he thinks the doors are endless.  Even then, he’s certain he can feel eyes watching through the glass, and he clenches his jaw and glares in return.  When he glimpses the plate, with the First Order logo printed on its left, his heart wedges itself into his throat.

Besides him, Obi-Wan’s arms tighten, but he keeps a far better composure.

“Does that happen often?”  Kylo asks, taking a step toward the window.  The car is long out of sight, but he would not be surprised to see it eventually make a return.

“What—the First Order?  More than I care to admit to, but they keep their distance.”

Clenching his jaw, Kylo shakes his head, a pulsing fury welling behind his eyes. 

“It’s nothing, Kylo,” Obi-Wan breathes, and the name resonates strangely in the air.  “I understand your concern, and your anger, but the shop is secure, our assets protected.  We’ve nothing to fear from them.”

Shaking his head again, Kylo swallows thickly.  “They’re planning to crush you.”  It’s a whisper, one that barely registers to his own ears, and he cannot even begin to comprehend his own surprise at speaking.

“Leia has suspected as much.  She and the rest of Alliance are doing their best to stay toe to toe with First Order’s advances on Republic, if not one step ahead.  You might do well to remember where you get your smarts from.”

It pulls a weak laugh from him, one that dies quickly as the car returns and passes the shop once more, coasting to the opposite end of the street.  No doubt his own car’s been noted, its presence here flagged for Snoke’s attention. 

He waits, anticipating the creeping, crawling, cutting sensations of guilt, panic, and paranoia.  Fresh lies and excuses are building up behind his teeth, but there’s a purr of a machine, and he thinks he hears her voice—triumphant and joyful—and it melts away.

He doesn’t care.

“You know—you do yourself a disservice.”  Obi-Wan’s voice carries over the short space and breaks his distance.  Turning his head, he regards his godfather carefully.

“How so?”

“You are hiding, Kylo,” it’s spoken gently, like a secret, and shame floods across Kylo’s tongue.  “Behind what, I can only imagine.  I don’t know you like I should, and that is as much my burden as yours.  But I know you’ve walked a difficult path since your grandfather’s passing.  You were not the only one to mourn Anakin—but you’ve shouldered most of that alone.  For that, I am truly sorry.”

Blinking slowly, Kylo looks away, breathing as deeply as his collapsing lungs will allow.

“But you cannot continue to do this.  Sheltering your feelings, nurturing them like an open wound without really letting them heal?  At best, you lengthen your suffering, at worst, you inflict your pain onto someone else.  Someone like Rey.”

“I am trying,” Kylo seethes, brimming at the edges with something he dares not describe.  “I am trying to be open, honest—for her.  She deserves that.  She deserves someone good.”

“She sees that good in you.”

“I wonder,” Kylo chuffs, swallowing again. 

“You’re afraid if you show her the dark, she’ll leave.”

“Han and Leia shut me out, didn’t they?”

“Your hands are hardly clean in that affair, and you know it.  No one acted right all those years ago.”  Obi-Wan sighs, unfolding some to close to the gap between the two of them.  “I can’t begin to fathom all that is going on inside that head of yours.  Maker knows I’d probably be scared, too.  But you do not need to be afraid, or alone.  She cares, Kylo.  _Deeply_.  But she is not responsible for your suffering, and she cannot save you—you’ll both drown before that happens.”

“So what would you have me do then?”  There are tears that blur Obi-Wan’s image, but Kylo can see something grim and hopeful all at once in his godfather’s expression.

“Be honest with her—show her all that you think you’re protecting her from, and you'll find you’re not as dark and hopeless as you’ve been led to believe.”

 

 _Time can never break your heart_  
_But it'll take the pain away_  
_Right now our future's certain_  
_I won't let it fade away_

 


	11. House of Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIGGEST FATTEST FUCKING THANK YOU TO ALANIA FOR HELPING ME WITH THIS AND FOR THE CHAPTERS TO COME JESUS CHRIST HI YES THANK YOU

_If you're a lover, you should know_  
_The lonely moments just get lonelier the longer you're in love_  
_Than if you were alone_

It had been with considerable effort to bring himself back here, back into the suit and tie and the cold illusion of false democracy; but he’s in the office at First Order, flipping through files and accounts of old partnerships when he gets a text.  Blinking slowly, his gaze remains fixated on the computer screen in front of him, skimming over lines of contract details and monthly sums as his finger slip and reach into his pocket.  When he touches the glass front of his phone, he hesitates, swallowing thickly as his vision blurs out briefly.

Shaking his head, Kylo inhales slowly, writing off the clench in his throat and the sudden rush of his heartbeat as yet another after effect to couple with the tremors in his hands, the pinching, pressing, pulsing aggravation of animalistic desire thrumming in the back of his mind.  Easing his phone from his pocket, he spares one last glance at the screen, frowning before tearing his gaze to see his message.

It’s from Rey, and it stills his heart at once.

_Yes, because I love impromptu audits in the middle of a heavily scheduled week, especially with scowling suits who’ve got sticks up their asses._

Shakily, he types back, fingers tapping loudly against the glass.

_Why are you being audited?_

_Dunno.  We manage everything ourselves, have never had any problems.  This one’s a real shit-stirrer, though._

_Did he say where he’s from?_

_First Order.  Why?_

Cursing, Kylo locks his screen, standing so quickly from his seat that his chair rocks and slams back against the wall.  Grabbing his keys and his jacket from the nearby rack, he slips out of his office and down the hall.  He wants to believe it’s nothing, wants to hold onto the shred of hope that everything will turn out fine for her.  But he can recall vague yet ominous threats, promises of his destruction should he fail to obey, and his heart is anything but kind in the way it lodges into the hollow of his throat.

He’s rounding the corner, pulling his jacket on over his shoulders before smoothing out his collar.  He’s grateful that he occupies the hallway leading to the lifts alone, because he’s almost certain that there is panic on his face.

For all his hopes, though, luck is not with him, as Phasma steps from her own office to his left.

“Ren,” she calls, and Kylo barely skids to a stop.  “Glad I caught you.  Snoke wanted—”

“Snoke will have to wait.  I have an emergency.”

“This cannot wait, Ren.”  Fuming, Kylo bites the inside of his cheek, turning on her.

“Leave it for Hux.  I’m sure he’d love to have a look at it.”

The glare that floods Phasma’s eyes floors Kylo, the world trembling beneath his feet.

“Hux is out of the office for now.  Snoke asked me to give this to _you_ , Ren.  Don’t keep him waiting.  You’ve done that enough already.”

The files are thrust so firmly into his chest that Kylo stumbles back a step, a breath leaving him in a heavy huff.  Phasma brushes past him, her towering figures stomping down the hall before vanishing from sight. 

His hands are shaking, and he spares another glance at the lift, contemplating just going.  He could, there’s no one to stop him.  Phasma had given him files, sure, but she didn’t explicitly say _when_ Snoke wanted them back.  Chewing the inside of his cheek, he tries to ignore the way his heart is beating itself against his lungs, but shoddy breathing only paves the way for clear thinking for so long.  

Cursing again, Kylo organizes the folders in into a single palm before fishing for his phone again.  Opening the keypad, he punches in a number not saved, yet hardly forgotten.

Bringing it to his ear, he clenches his jaw as he pivots and stomps back the way he way, rounding the corner toward his office, glancing through windows as if willing them to warp and magnify, to show him the shop.

The dial tone rings a handful of times before the call connects with a click.  A quiet, but strong voice, older than he’d like it to be, answers.  “Hello?”

“I need a favor.”

“Of course, anything.”  Leia breathes, her relief slipping through the atmosphere and soothing the uproar in Kylo’s soul.  For all her bravery, all her advantages and prestige in this world of theirs, he knows she’s still his mother.  She will always be.  And he thinks that he should be nervous, that he should feel tight and insecure at this prospect of hearing her voice again after all these years.  But he’s not.

If anything, he’s relieved she answered at all.

“Alliance insures Obi-Wan’s shop, correct?” 

“Yes.”

“And all of its employees?”

“Yes, through certain policies.”

“I need you to make a special one—full coverage, _all_ assets protected.  Maximum reliability.”

“Who is this for, Ben?” 

For once the name doesn’t sour his tongue.

“Rey.  Please—”

“All right, Ben.  I’ll do what I can.”

“ _No_ ,” his voice is wavering, threatening to crack and break and expose him for how weak he’s become.  He’s reaching out for the door, thinking of glass and vertigo, and of Rey.  “I’m sorry.  But I need you to do this.  I need you to make sure—”

“Ben,” she hesitates, and he sighs, shutting his office door.  Slumping against it, Kylo spares a glance through the large window, taking in the city in the summer light.  “I’ll do what I can.  Obi-Wan is smart, he’ll help her, too.  But what you’re asking is…  It’s a lot.  And you know, more than anyone, what that means.”

“I know, yes,” he sighs, pushing off from the door before crossing to his desk.  “And I know it, likely, hasn’t been easy over the last few months.”

“No, it hasn’t,” Leia’s tone is clipped, almost cold, and he shies away from it but knows he deserves it.  He’s come to this understanding, thankfully, in his time away from this place of steel and red, that there is much he’s done to complicate his mother’s life and work.  She means well, even in her anger and frustration, and he will not fault her for indulging in her honesty.  “But we’re managing.  We’re losing Republic’s favor, but we will not go quietly, or without a fight.”

Sinking into his chair, Kylo’s eyes flicker over the contents of his monitor, skimming through files and emails.  He has the information at hand, and whatever else he needs he knows he has means of accessing.  Swallowing thickly, he tucks the phone against his shoulder, typing quickly into his search bar.

“You may not have to.”  He says, opening documents and contracts.  He’s barely looking at the content, only drawing a handful of words here, figures there, a couple of vague document titles and headlines.  But it’s enough, and he minimizes the windows into the bottom bar to continue his search.

“What do you mean?”

“I can get you what you need to stabilize Alliance.”

“Ben—”

“Don’t,” he cuts, clenching his jaw.  “I did this.  I’m part of this.  And I… I can’t anymore.  I won’t.”

“Just come home, Ben.  We’ll fix it, then.”

“No, not yet,” his response is immediate, and it twists his gut to hear her let out a quiet breath of disappointment.  He can see her face, the pain and sadness that are in her eyes.  No doubt she’s got a hand on her hip, delicate fingers digging harder than necessary to ease her retaliation.  They’ll have time for that later.  “First Order is making a move to buy you outright, and Republic, too, if necessary.  But I know you—I know you’re resourceful.  You can garner in extra shares with some of your bigger partners, maybe even make a show of extending your reach for good measure.  If nothing, it gets Republic’s attention, puts you ahead on the radar.  There are a couple of companies you might be able to take under your wing.  Good people, good workers.  With the right insurance, they’ll give you anything and everything you need to show Republic that First Order is callous and unethical.”

“This is dangerous.”

“This is necessary.”  He cuts, glaring over the top of his computer to the vast city skyline through the window.  There’s a moment where he just hears her breathing, and then there’s a quiet laughter.  She’s not amused, though.  She’s accepting.

“You really care for this girl.” 

He bites his lip, a smile pulling at his mouth despite the circumstances.

“Yeah.  I do.”

 

* * *

 

 _I don't want to be afraid, the deeper that I go_  
_It takes my breath away, soft hearts electric souls_

 

* * *

 

Therapy is just as unsuccessful as it’s ever been, but at least he doesn’t leave feeling like screaming.  Still, the edges of him are raw and exposed, fresh, bleeding and aching nerves that hiss and shy away from everything.  His clothes feel tight, scratching him until he’s flayed, the wind feeling more like salt than something reassuring.  And after everything in the last week, with Rey’s audit, smuggling files to Alliance, and the constant welling of insatiable lust for his habits, there’s a returning part of him that just wants to disappear.

Grey skies churn and dark, the low rumble of the car’s engine only bubbling under the surface of his skin and increasing the pounding between his ears.  They’d wanted to talk about his grandfather, about his childhood.  They wanted to know about the screaming matches, the late nights where Han would roll in and disappear before dawn, the tension in Leia’s eyes as Alliance grew and became a superpower of peaceful prospects.

They wanted to know when the addiction started.  He’d done everything he could not to leave, then and there.

He doesn’t really remember when it started, or even why.  He remembers his grandfather’s passing, the emotional deconstruction of his world until he left home.  He remembers slipping into the waves of bright neon lights and smoke-heavy clubs until he would stumble out, choking on cheap booze, and higher than a damn kite. 

Gritting his teeth, he stumbles into the apartment, the blackness of it all only a small comfort as he makes his way down the hall and toward his room.  City lights are streaming through the shaded windows, and he falls face first into the blankets and pillows, still dressed, shoes still laced to his feet.

It’s the first time in a very long time that he hurts, burning and twisting and torn up on the inside.  And he has to bite the pillow’s corner, chewing the fabric to sate the bubbling, brewing, bristling sensation to tear his room apart because he knows, he fucking knows there’s still some, somewhere.  He never got rid of it all—how could he, there are so many stashes, so many places to hide. 

Sitting up, Kylo fumbles off the bed before filtering through the shelves in his headboard, fingers flying and digging through boxes, nooks, crannies, bags.  He rummages through the sock and underwear drawer of his headboard, crawling over his bed to the desk, practically tearing the drawers off their tracks.  His heart is racing, sweat beading across his forehead as his mouth runs dry.  When he sniffles, he thinks he smells iron, but when he touches the skin, it’s dry, if not a bit flaky.

Growling, he dumps the contents across his bed, filtering through papers, photos, receipts, pens and pencils and ticket stubs from ten-plus-fucking-years-ago— _why does he still have half of this stuff_?  And there’s something in the back of his mind, fighting to breathe, fighting to stay above the surface of inky black waters that feel colder than cold, until he touches plastic, the indescribably recognizable squish of fine powder.

When he lifts it into the air, the grey light from his window makes the white appear to glow.

A laugh brims behind his teeth, but his fingers are shaking.  The darker shadows in his peripheral, accompanied with a quiet and haunting whisper of encouragement, all but push him over the edge.  But staring at the bag, at the confines of a single high, bring him pause.  When he blinks, he sees her face.

Teeth chattering, his fingers close around the bag, and he brings his fist to his forehead.  He has to clench his jaw, digging his teeth into the meet of his cheek to keep from screaming.  Fire is licking his rawness, searing his muscles, veins, bones, until the fever settles and sweat rolls down his back.  His throat hurts, his heart hurts, and he’s never wanted to retch quite so badly before as he does now.

But oh—to be free?  To inhale and lay back and let the world melt away around him, to float on a sea of stars, in a warmth that doesn’t burn.  He can paint her in his mind, like he’s done before, touch her in the ways he can’t bring himself to do now because he’s selfish and vain and cruel and not what she needs or deserves.  

In the sea of black, he can hold her how he wants, without fear that she’ll hate his darkness.

But in the field, with the trees, the bench, and her freckled fingers and wide mouth, he can keep it in, keep it secure, secret, safe.  He can just be—

He screams, this time, throwing the bag against the wall with all the force he can muster.  It hurts his shoulder, blood racing through him as it _thwacks_ quietly, and disappears somewhere into the mess on his floor.

 

* * *

 

 _I think of you from time to time  
_ _More than I thought I would_

 

* * *

 

He makes a quiet promise to himself to tell her.  To open up to the truth of his work, the lengths of his actions, the depths of his darkness.  He writes it down, says it all aloud in a mess of ineloquent curses and frustrated sighs, but he gets it out there.  The loneliness of his childhood, the pain of his grandfather’s passing, the abandonment of his parents, the sway of Snoke’s promises on the legacy he carried on his back like a planet.

The reality that he has cut through more people, more careers, more lifelines, more security than he cares to admit weighs a damn ton, and even in this absence from work he can still feel it piling, aching.  There’s a throbbing left behind between his eyes that pulses with a screaming desire for vices, but the virtue of her lips, even as a memory against his own mouth, abates the dark.  For now.

Swallowing slowly, he rehearses it all one more time to ignore the ache for amber, for the white still on the floor of his room, as well as to assure that in this basic explanation he forgets nothing.  She will have questions, and he will answer them as best he can.  But there are words to be said before she can press, and he needs to know them as intimately as she, ultimately, will. 

He has to.  For her.  For himself.

 

* * *

 

_You were just too kind  
And I was too young to know_

 

* * *

 

He awakes early in the grey morning of the waning autumn, and sends her a message.  _Meet me for breakfast?  My treat._

He doesn’t expect a response, and leaves his phone plugged in beneath the cool side of his pillow while he vanishes to shower, to scrub away the reoccurring dreams of glass and falling.  The hands are different now, the androgyny of their shape no more comforting than when he’d assumed their femininity.  Even in this, he still watches his own face as he falls, garish and cold.

This time, there’s a scar that splits his façade.

With water still dripping from his hair, steam billows and folds around his shoulders and legs, meeting the cold air beyond the bathroom door with a silent hiss.  The warm clouds shift and bend before melting, a towel tucked at his hips as a bead of water rolls down the bridge of his wide nose. 

The dark of his room is not quite as stagnant as he’d feared, the grey light filtering from the window casting shadows on the walls that look more like feathers than claws.  Where once he might have found their shapes ominous, the smoother aesthetic bears a touch of warmth and kindness.  Even still, he reaches and fumbles for the light, feeling a breath spread in his chest as the dark goes crawling back to the corners, just beyond the edge of his peripheral.

Drying and dressing, Kylo’s just pulled a button up on when he hears his phone buzzing beneath the pillow.  Fishing for it, he smiles to find Rey’s name and photo lighting up the screen.

“Good morning,” he tells her upon accepting the call, tucking the phone against his ear, “didn’t expect you to be awake.”

“I could say the same for you.”  She’s energized, if not breathless.  “Just finished a run.  You?”

“Shower,” he muses, letting the fabric of his clothes hang open as he sits on the edge of his bed.  “How long do you need to clean up?”

“What, don’t wanna snuggle up to my sweaty self?”

“If I may change the context of said sweat, then absolutely.”

He hears her breath hitch, and something deeper than a laugh leaves him smirking.  To hold her, though, close and tight with little more than a breath of intimacy is not a thought he goes many days without.  The desire has crossed him before, as it tantalizes him now, but he’s never allowed himself to dwell too long, the lingering remains of dissatisfaction still clinging to him the last time he came to the image of her.

That feels like so long ago.

“Where’re we meeting, Ren?”  Her tone brushes aside the suggestion, and his smile softens as his fingers fumble at the buttons of his shirt once more.

“Café?  Or the park?”

“Park’s nice.  I like our bench,” he hears her rustling around, and a deep sigh tells him she’s swallowed something.  “Drinks and scones?”

He snorts, licking his lips.  “Sounds perfect.  I can pick them up.  Green tea and honey?”

“Always.  Meet you in thirty?”

“It’s a date.”

Dressing is simple and easy once he’s disconnected the call, and he’s pulling a light jacket on over his broad shoulders, letting it drape loose and open.  Grabbing his keys and wallet, Kylo gives but a breath and a glance to the apartment before he slips out of it, grateful to lock the steel, leather, and sharp edges away behind the door. 

Beyond the tower and the gleaming lines, the sky is grey and dull with the oncoming breath of late autumn.  He’s grateful for the jacket, his wet hair tousled in a breeze that sends chills down his spine.  But the drive to the small shop on the corner is quick, and he makes it to the park with what he expects are a few minutes to spare.  He can’t be surprised, though, as he’s turning the key and letting the engine fall silent to see her already in their usual spot.

A smile graces him as he collects their beverages, the small paper bag hanging from between his teeth as he shuts the car door with a foot.  The sound, even so far away, catches her attention in this still morning, and her smile is so radiant that he expects it to hurt.

He breathes when he realizes it doesn’t.

Her footsteps are light and quick, a pair of loose denim jeans hugging her hips.  She’s got a beige, cowl-necked sweater clinging to her torso, the sleeves pushed up to reveal toned, freckled arms.  Her hands are outstretched, taking first her tea and then the bag from his mouth.  When he offers her a smile, her cheeks turn rosy, and she’s standing on her toes to meet him.

He bends, hunched at the shoulders, but he kisses her sweetly, and lingers long after she’s pulled away.

“C’mon, before someone takes our spot.”  She offers, and his gut warms at _our_.

Kylo’s never been a man with much in the way of luck, or conventionally good circumstances.  But there’s something about watching her walk to the bench, knowing in that their own special way it belongs to _them_ , that resonates within the fractured parts of himself; if faith were a thing he believed in, he would almost consider himself blessed.  When he breathes, he doesn’t wince, and he has to be thankful for that.

He sits next to her, letting the spread of his hip to knee press to hers, his fingers wrapped tenderly around his own coffee—extra sugar, today, he’d decided at the shop.  Watching her blow steam from the mouth of her tea, his heart kicks and wedges itself in his throat.  He wants to count the freckles on her nose and cheeks, the way her eyelashes fan across her skin when she closes her eyes.  He’s certain he’s spent so long staring at her over these last few months that he could precisely measure the width of her mouth, the brilliance of her smile, could write music to the tone of her laughter.

He’s also certain he loves her.

“You’re staring,” she stays into her tea, eyes alight with mischief as she sips from it.

“I know,” he tells her.  Her rose-flushed cheeks darken further.  “Is your tea good?”

“Excellent,” she hums, licking her lips slowly. 

“Apple or Danish?”  He offers, motioning to the paper bag resting against her thigh. 

“Both,” she snorts, and he rolls his eyes even as he smiles.

“How about we share?”

“Yes, sir,” her tone is light, her hand already reaching into the bag.  He feels a twist of fire and want, but stamps it down with a swallow and a bite to his cheek.  He tells himself to relax, to take her hand, to pour himself into her arms.

She’s breaking off a piece of apple scone and pressing it to his mouth, and he accepts it instead of speaking.

 

* * *

 

_Then will you remember me in the same way  
As I remember you_

 

* * *

 

He has six missed calls, each attached with a message.  Four of them are from Hux, another from Snoke’s personal office, and he tries his best to repress the cutting sensation of ice, the tingling in his nose and throat, in his core as he reads the names.  Ignoring the voicemails is easy, and he deletes them without ever bothering to press play.  But there’s one left from Han that pinches his lungs closed, and he can do little more than choke on a breath before he’s raising his phone to his ear to listen.

_Hey—Kylo, it’s me.  I figured I’d—try to reach back out to you.  It’s been a while since we talked, and your mother mentioned what you did for her, for Alliance, and… we miss you.  I can’t begin to imagine everything that’s going on, especially for you, but, if you can—if you want to…  I’d like to try.  You deserve that._

There’s a burning in his eyes and Kylo swallows hard and thick, chewing so hard on the inside of his cheek that he tastes blood.

_I’m sorry, kid.  For everything.  Come home when you’re ready.  We’ll be here, waiting._

Letting the phone fall from his ear, Kylo hides his face behind his palm, gritting his teeth as tears flood and soak against his skin.  For so long he’s been grappling with the reality that he’s been abandoned, alone, and forcibly independent.  Since his grandfather’s passing, few have ever taken the time to reach out to him, to ask him if he was all right, to ensure that he was being cared for. 

But then he’d called his mother, begged a favor when it could have spelled certain disaster for what she’s built, and she obliged as though he hasn’t been the face of her rival for years.  And now—now this?  Han Solo is among many Kylo would have never expected to call, but there’s something painful in the graveled voice of his father that digs in and rips him apart from the inside out.

Shaking, he huffs behind his palms, trying to breathe as he wipes his eyes, dragging his palms through his hair.  He’s feverish and sweating, and feels a churning in his gut for things he shouldn’t want or need, but does, and he’s not sure if it’s grief or stubbornness that keeps him planted in the living room instead of stomping to his bedroom in search of white and the sea of blackened stars.

He doesn’t because he knows, deep down, he can’t, he shouldn’t, so he won’t.  He’s come so far in this endless year, and there’s a part of him that is unfathomably _proud_ of that fact.  He’s not proud of the things he’s done, the people’s he’s hurt, the lies he’s told along the way.  He’s not proud of his habits, the things that keep him up at night.  But he’s proud that he’s breaking away, that he’s clawing, and chipping, and cutting away the black, the dark, and the cold that’s festered in his gut for years. 

Kylo knows who to thank, knows where this began and where the changes occurred.  He can see her face, the warm and comforting depth of her eyes, the limitless radiance of her smile.  And there are things about her that he’ll never quite understand, just as there are things he will resonate with all too well, her pain and her happiness as easily felt as his own.  And it’s her, it will always be her, he thinks as he swipes across the screen.  She will always be—

_What’s stopping you_

He clenches the phone a little harder, his chest feeling full and heavy with too many things.  But he still feels warm and free, all because of her.

_You don’t have to be afraid_

Oh, doesn’t he?  He wants to laugh, wants to believe it, because he’s so very, very afraid. 

 

* * *

 

_And when your fantasies become your legacy  
Promise me a place in your house of memories_

 

* * *

 

There’s a desire to feel suprised, but the routine is commonplace of all things now, and he can’t even pretend.  It’s another late, cold, restless, and emotionally taxing night that leaves him sitting up in bed, staring at the wall, and trying to ignore the bag still lying somewhere in the abyss of his room when she calls him.

He answers her without hesitation, bringing the phone to his ear with her name on his tongue when he hears her sniffle, and realizes she’s crying.

“Rey?”  If exhaustion had been clinging to him before, it’s long since fled now.  “Rey, what’s wrong?”

She doesn’t say anything at first, blubbering quietly, her sniffles wet and heavy with a grief he can imagine all too well.  His heart pounds up into his throat, vibrating through to his sternum, the pulses shaking his lungs.  He’s certain he might burst, but places a palm over his heart, breathing as deeply as he can allow.  On the other end of the line, she hiccups, but exhales fully, and slowly.

“I, I just,” she begins, her voice raw and hoarse, and he fights a wince.  She sounds like she’s swallowed glass.  “I was asleep, and I just, I saw—”

“What, Rey?”  He breathes, eyes scanning the dark as though if he visualizes her words they’ll make more sense.  “It’s okay, just breathe.”

“I saw you,” she moans, a chitter of whimpers filling the silence as she inhales shakily.  “I was standing…  Somewhere up tall.  I could see the city—I could see everything.  And you were there and you were reaching for me but I… I didn’t _care_?  I wanted to, Kylo, I wanted to reach back and hold you and I wanted to scream but I was just… I was so cold.  I watched you fall?  There…there was glass and you were shouting, and then you were falling, and I’m—”

Somewhere along the way he stops hearing her.  But he sees it.  He sees the glass, the hands outstretched, his own face with the scar and the pale pallor of his skin.  The city is whipping up past his thrashing frame as his own marked face grows smaller, distant, until it’s an indistinguishable blur.

He opens his mouth to speak, to calm her, but he can’t even breathe.  His face is hot, but his core is cold, hardened like steel, and when he tries to listen, her words are garbled and incoherent.  It’s like he’s hearing another language, and focusing harder on the sounds only makes the twisting sharper. 

He thinks he should tell her— _knows_ he should.  The words he’s been writing and memorizing churning behind the clench of his teeth, tasting sour in their honesty.  But then there’s a mumble and a sigh, before a line of clarity extends a silver hand with Rey’s breaking voice.  “I’m scared.”

His heart stuffs itself into his mouth, suffocating him.  Not tonight.

 

_Promise me a place—_


	12. The Good, The Bad, And The Dirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahah I'm not sorry, not even a little.  
> <3
> 
> Additionally this whole thing has gone completely sideways from where I originally planned. But I think I'll learn to like it. It feels better.

_Truth is that it was always going to end_  
_This symphony buzzing in my head_  
_Took a market of filth and sold like summer_

He soothes her to sleep, staying on the line until her breathing pans to a low and heavy rhythm, and she doesn’t respond with even the faintest of hums when he says her name.  Even then, though, he remains, listening to the sounds she makes as she drifts away, his eyes fixed on the window of his bedroom as if he could open it wide and be just across from hers, instead.

He doesn’t end the call until the first break of dawn touches the glass. The duration reads three hours, forty-two minutes, and six seconds.

The ghost of her anguished voice haunts him, lingering with reverberating echoes as he slips from the cold of his bed.  Wood floors are just as icy, prickling the bottoms of his feet, surging through his calves and tickling his thighs.  Inhaling around a lump in his throat, Kylo spares a glance to the grey light filtering through his room, fanning through the blinds like tendrils of smoke seeking out the calm in an effort to smother.

Chewing at the inside of his cheek, his eyes roam over the blank, white walls before slipping down to the mess of the floor, the sentimental pieces haphazardly covering the grain of the boards.  He sees the small bag almost immediately, the same kind of hue wrapped around its packaging, a beacon even in the still dark.  There’s an expectation, a kind of certainty, somewhere in the depths of his soul to feel the pull, or to welcome the disregard. 

Nothing.  He finds nothing.

Frowning, his feet carry and his body bends, knees bearing the weight as his hand reaches, fingers outstretched and carding through the mess until plastic is pinched between fingertip and thumb.  Bones creak and sigh as he stands, bringing the powder into the stream of dawn that slices the dark, the glow brightening as he blinks, breaking the stare long enough to quell the strain behind his eyes.

Wetting his lower lip, he flips the package back and forth, inspecting its two sides, grasping for some sense that there’s a pull or a push somewhere inside of him, beckoning his hand to make a decision.

But—nothing.  A tightrope of indecision, and he wonders if this is, truly, the hardest point: that he could fall either way. 

Choking back the lump, forcing it behind his sternum, he tucks the bag into the drawer of his desk. And while he doesn't go back to bed, back to dreams or restlessness, he is grateful nonetheless that Rey does not drift from his thoughts. 

 

* * *

 

He’s decided there’s something painfully unsettling about the office in the early hours of the morning, when few else roam the halls or occupy the lobby on the main floor.  Some parts are still dark, untouched by the grey of the dawn that presses to tinted windows, earnestly clawing at the seams to be let in. 

His footsteps are thunderous, reverberating off far walls and coming back to him like shrieks, and his hands are clenched into fists as he fumbles at the door to his own office, rasping a breath into the frame before turning the handle, frowning as he does so.  Stumbling inside, he shuts it once more, letting his back fall against the wood as he wills the world to right itself once more.  His throat aches, and swallowing the lump is painful as he rubs his nose with a knuckle.

The port beyond the city is engulfed in fog, wisps billowing passed his window in swirls of grey.  The light won’t reach his office for a while, but the glow of the waking city cuts most of the darkness away, and Kylo shifts from one foot to another as he saunters from the door to his desk.  There are still files scattered haphazardly across his work space, his computer humming in sleep-mode. 

Flipping the switch for the monitor, he waits for it to brighten, blinking back the wash of white that assaults him while ignoring the swell in his throat.  Glancing through the files once more, he straightens their edges, tucking documents back into their proper places, the faint memory of Phasma’s hands shoving them against his chest still lingering in the back of his mind. 

Returning his attention to his computer, he inputs his login to the main interface, disregarding emails—most from Hux, Mitaka, and Phasma—concerning privatizing certain partnerships and making others more public, capital projects and contracts.  Sinking into his seat, Kylo wills the knot in his throat to abate and relax, but it pulls tighter, his breathing shallow and uneven. 

He knows he slept poorly, and chalks it up to his concern for Rey.  That she is seeing his dreams, sharing in his fear, twists something hot and sharp inside of him.  And he knows he needs to tell her, needs to own up to the shit he’s pulled and the work he does, the fact that he is part of an employment that she likely despises with all her being.

Clenching his jaw, Kylo pulls his hands away from the keyboard, scrubbing his fingers over his eyes and down his face, a pulsing beating erratically behind his temples.  He can still hear her sobs, see the light glinting off the white powder that now sits, protected, in his desk drawer back home.

And the lump in his throat remains.

The light from his monitor gleams off one of the files, emblazoned with the First Order logo and nothing else, and Kylo’s hand hovers over it momentarily, a twitch shaking him.  He doesn’t remember this one being among the stack he received from Phasma, but perhaps it was mingled in the mix.  Opening the folder, his eyes scan over the details, his heart inching its way up into his sternum before vaulting into his mouth.

Transaction records—companies he let slip through his fingers in his absence making partnerships with Alliance, detailed accounts of his activity through the First Order system, all the files he pulled up and reviewed.  There’s even a list of his recent, personal, phone calls—the latest being with Rey, and Leia.

He can’t breathe, his heart surely about to fall from between his lips to spill out into a bloodied, beating mess on his desk and lap.  The world is tipping, tilting and shifting like one too many lines and far too many shots.  Looking up to his screen again, he scans the emails, for what he’s not sure.  A sign, something he overlooked before?  He’d been careful, he’d kept everything locked—

Locked.

He had locked the office door before leaving.  He knows he did.

“I tried to warn you.”

Phasma’s voice cuts through the silence, and Kylo jumps in his seat, knocking files over and spilling his guilt across the floor.  The glow of his screen washes her face out when he turns to her, her eyes cold and dark.  She looks sad.

“I told you it couldn’t wait.”  She continues, glancing to the mess of papers.

“Phasma,” it’s barely above a whisper, and he can’t meet her gaze.  “Where’s Hux?”

“Kenobi’s.”  He wants to scream.

“Why?  We don’t insure them; we don’t handle any of their finances.  Alliance does.”

“Has that ever stopped us?”

“Phasma—”

“Enough,” she interrupts, her gaze hard and heavy.  Ice forms at her edges.  “You’re either with us, with this company, or you’re not.  You need to decide.”

He doesn’t answer her right away, his heart indecisive of where in his frailty it would like to slam first.  The grey of the autumn morning is brightening slowly, casting mixed shadows and streams between them, and he has to tear himself away from her lest he lash out or cry. 

Instead, he launches from his chair, blowing passed her and out the door.  

 

* * *

  _I know what it's like to have to trade_  
_The ones that you love for the ones you hate_  
_Don’t think I’ve ever used a day of my education_  
_There's only two ways that these things can go--good or bad_  
_And how was I to know that all your friends won’t hold any grudges_  
_I got the final judgemen_ t 

* * *

 

It’s overcast, and chilly, by the time he squeals to a stop at the corner of the street, his godfather’s shop just in view. 

He cares little as he twists and rips the keys free from the ignition, his blazer unbuttoned and his hair a wild mess from tangling it between his fingers during the drive.  There are men in black suits walking to and from the shop’s doors, carrying boxes and parts like some grand repossession parade.  Hux’s brilliant orange hair is a beacon amidst grey and cold, glaring and obscene in the backdrop of grey, concrete, and glass.  He has to fight the snarl, the urge to lunge and rip it from the roots to see if it’s as natural as Hux has always claimed.

There’s a distant memory of her mentioning an audit, and Phasma’s cold reality of _Has that ever stopped us_ is still ringing, bordering on a siren that resonates violently in his bones.  That Alliance hasn’t stepped in, even in the wake of his call to his mother, makes his stomach twist and churn.

Nearby, his godfather has an arm around Rey, her bun disheveled, her face a cacophony of anger and grief.  She’s shouting, wailing as Hux stands, indignant of her protests.  Occasionally she reaches, swiping to stop a suit, though Obi-Wan reels her back, keeping her from a fight.  In one moment, he sees her from a distance, slamming the car door shut, and the next he’s pulling her from Obi-Wan’s hold.

“You can’t _do_ this,” Rey’s still screaming, struggling until she recognizes something in him, and the tremors in her shoulders stop.  He tastes his pulse, feels it settle, and turns his glare upon his co-worker.

“But I am,” Hux muses, acknowledging her for the first time, before raising his gaze to Kylo’s.  “Unlike some, I see every aspect of my job through to completion.  Had Ren done his, like he was supposed to, I wouldn’t be here.”

“What are you talking about?”  Rey spits, and Kylo loops his arms tighter around her.

“Don’t,” he says into her hair. 

“ _What_ are you talking about?”  She shouts again, ignoring him. 

Hux glances to him, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and Kylo can only hope that there’s a force powerful enough to rain hell on him.

“Tell me, Kenobi,” Hux purrs, looking beyond them.  At Kylo’s side, his godfather stands straight, the lines of exhaustion in his face doing little to combat the pride and stoicism in his eyes.  “You didn’t put up your employees, did you?  It’d be shame to lose job and home in one day.”

In his arms, Rey falters.

“You can’t.”  She’s weak, tired, the tremors back as she digs her nails into the fabric of his blazer.  He holds her tighter.

“No, he can’t,” he assures her.  Whether she’s listening or not, he isn’t sure.

“Well, maybe _I_ can’t,” Hux admits, sliding his hands into his pockets.  The smirk remains.  “But our employer can.  And he already has.  Had you been at work, you would know that.”

In a heartbeat, Hux is gone, disappearing into the cool black of his car before vanishing down the street. 

In another, Rey goes from nearly collapsing to digging so hard into him that he has to let go, spinning a fire hotter than the sun on him.  “You knew.”

His blood runs cold.  “No.  Not really.”

“ _Not really_?”  She seethes, strangers staring from across and down the street.  He notices a few of them pick up pace, and disappear as well.  “What kind of answer is that?”

“An honest one,” he breathes, struggling to meet her gaze.  “Everything’s going to be fine, Rey, I promise—”

“How?  How is this going to be fine?  I have no job, no home, and you work for _them_?  They are callous and cold—they’ve ruined lives, people I know!  How is that all right?”  Her eyes are wild, the edges of her words clipped with a snarl, and he is aching from the inside out.

“Everything of yours is protected, they can’t touch it.”

“So you knew enough to go behind my back and pretend to be a hero, but you couldn’t tell me?  You couldn’t tell me you work for them?  Were you ever going to?”  She hisses, stepping away from him.  It hurts to breathe.

“Yes!  Please, Rey—”

“When?  When were you going to?”

“Can we please do this inside?”  He asks, reaching for her. 

“No,” she snaps, glaring between him and his godfather.  He’s not sure whether or not Obi-Wan’s silence is a blessing or a curse.  “You couldn’t offer me the decency to tell me the truth, you don’t deserve the dignity.  You _lied_ to me, Kylo!”

He bites back the sting in his eyes, the hollow feeling clawing at his chest.  “What was I supposed to say, Rey?  What kind of reaction would you have had?  You know what they do—what _I_ do.  Do you think that makes me proud?”

“I don’t care,” she cuts, pursing her lips as tears roll down her face.  “I don’t care what it makes you.  You lied.  How do I know you didn’t lie about anything _else_?”

“No,” it’s a whisper, and his knees bend, weak.

“Just leave, Kylo.”

“Rey, don’t,” he begs, going to her again.  She shakes her head, but doesn’t move.  “Don’t say that, please.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, I lied, yes, but I’m trying to get out, I’m trying to fix that for you—”

“I don’t need your help,” she shies from him before he can touch her.  His chest is like ice, chipping, cracking, fragmenting into pieces, the radiance of her withdrawing from his core as easily as she does from his hands.  “I don’t want it.  I don’t want this—this— _thing_ , whatever it was between us?  I don’t—”

“ _Rey_ …”

“Ben,” Obi-Wan mutters, perhaps low enough to be a secret, drawing him back with a wrinkled, worn hand on his shoulder.  It’s not enough.

He doesn’t look away from her, watching as her gaze drops, landing somewhere off into the distance.  But her mouth forms his name, a final straw.  _Ben_.

Where he once might’ve given anything to hear her say it, now he wishes she didn’t know. 

 _No._ He should have told her sooner.  And now it’s too late. 

 

* * *

 

The world, he decides, is composed of many strange things, all of which happen at once and without regard to anything else within it.  He’s not sure how he makes it back to the apartment, the keys falling from his fingers and landing upon the wood flooring with an echoing _clang._

Sturdy as it is, the floor feels uneven, rippling with waves, or maybe the tides that knock him off balance are as a result of his weak knees.  The cold bites into his hands, and he digs his nails into the grain, suffocating under the layers of dress shirt and blazer.  Ice weaves its way between his bones, his veins, settling somewhere inside of him until he’s hollowed out and barren. 

He doesn’t want to feel this way, doesn’t want to succumb to the chill, the apathetic wash of frozen ocean water lapping over his soul until the salt wears him down to nothing.  But if anything it’s familiar, even in the recesses of his memory, and he’d once learned how to manage it, how to move through the chill and blue and grey. 

He was a different person then.  He was Kylo Ren, without Rey, then.

There’s a tension that coils, wrapping itself into the membrane of his essence, burrowed in between vertebrae and rib, pulsing beneath joints and cuffs until he’s certain he’ll splice and fall apart, scattered across the open floor like fallen branches, rotted out and dry.  Heaving, he expects to open his eyes to a mess, but finds nothing other than bile and spit. 

Walls stretch high, imposing and bleak, white-washed and bright yet shadowed at the edges, reflections of steel spilling over matte black leather.  He reaches out, digging his nails, desperate to pierce holes, puncture the fabric to reflect the gaps in his soul, the places he chewed apart and filled with her.  The places that are now empty because of his own insolence.

He wonders if he should be surprised, if perhaps some part of him understood that it would always come here.  He would fail her, just as he failed his parents, his family, his grandfather.  _Would you be proud?  Are you happy?_

The ache that threatens to swarm and overwhelm him tastes sour, bitter memories of his adolescence following his grandfather’s passing.  Anakin had been a beacon of light, and hope, and when he died Kylo was sure he’d never find his place again.  But then he’d found Rey, and Rey—

Rey is too far away, now.  He looks to the door, bleary-eyed and groveling, and tries to feel for her. 

There is nothing.  Only his own cold, shattered self.

Didn’t Obi-Wan say that he would drown them both?

Gritting his teeth, Kylo pulls at the cushions, shucking them across the room until they collide with floor lamps, glass shattering over tile and wood.  The sound is a symphony, perfect and pure, and the world spins as he shoulders coffee tables, dunking their contents onto the floor as the grain chips and cracks under the stress of steel beams. 

At once he’s upright, stumbling around a corner and down the hall, knocking into walls and splitting the skin of his knuckles, opening holes near the linen closet and his bathroom.  There’s a smear of red that follows, staining the floor as he slams the bedroom door open.  It bounces off the wall with a _crack_ , something crumbling and scattering over the floorboards.

Grey, afternoon light spills across his unmade bed.  Hours ago, and an eternity in its wake, her voice had filled his head, the dark, the anguish of her dreams matched with his own haunting.  He should have told her then.  For, now, he feels like he’s falling into a void, broken glass flying around him with reflections of moments he should have taken advantage of. 

Missed opportunities blur before him as his hands tangle into the sheets and blankets, ripping them free of the mattress.  They collect in a heap at the door, the desk chair overturned and tossed into the far wall, colliding with closet doors until wood splinters and cracks, shattered pieces falling in threads.

His throat hurts, hoarse from shouts he doesn’t remember emitting as his hands curl around a picture frame, and glass rains down across the threshold of the room.  His face is hot, wet, every inch of him screaming as if he’s been set on fire, but his chest, his heart, the deepest place of him is ice-fucking-cold.  And it _hurts_.

Ripping open a drawer, he’s ready to fling it across the room when light washes over plastic and white, and trembling, bloodied fingers retrieve it, before ripping it open. 

 

* * *

 _And you been gone so long, I forgot what you feel like  
But I'm not gonna think about that right now_  

* * *

 

Somewhere between sleep and being awake, he sees her eyes.  Always her eyes, only her eyes, nothing else.  Not even her smile.  Where once he could hear her laughter like a melody, there is only silence.  Cold, numb, blissful silence. 

He reaches out to her, scabbed knuckles aching, smelling iron and powder.  Her eyes turn cold, dark, angry, before they vanish, too.

In the dark, his hands are outstretched, and he mumbles to himself.  In the front room, his phone is buried under a pillow, collecting a second missed call. 

 

* * *

 

It’s an early summer day, the high towering spires of the outer city glittering like jewels.  He might think it beautiful if they weren’t so tall, so high up there in the clouds.  And there are so many clouds, puffy and white and hanging in the sky like they’re strung to the stars he can’t quite see yet.  It’s too bright, but he knows they’re there.  _The stars are always there_.

Turning from them, he looks across the lawn to see his parents, his mother embraced by his grandmother, and his father shaking hands with his grandfather.  There’s something that reads as sad about the moment, though, and Ben feels the touch of something cold settling into his gut.  A bad feeling, he thinks, hearing his father’s careful voice echoing a mantra that’s always felt too bitter for moments that turned out all right.

Glancing back to the spires near the clouds, the warm sun shining upon them, he ignores the cold.  Today’s not a day for bad feelings or chills.  It’s summer, and the spires are shining.  He’s ten years old. 

 

* * *

 

There are nights where he doesn’t dream of his childhood, and he doesn’t see the smiles of his grandparents.  Instead, there are nights where it’s dark, ice cocooning him in thick tendrils and sheets, weaving him in so tight that he’s certain he’ll never know warmth again.  Sometimes, he convinces himself that such a fate isn’t so bad.

He dreams of falling, glass raining around him, and he sees her.  Blackened clouds circle the world above them and wind whips through her hair, curtaining half her face every other moment.  She is so far away, so cold, so angry and hateful of him, and she should be, he thinks.  She should.  He’s a monster.  Always has been, always will be. 

He’s falling from her, unable to even scream, ready to accept the endlessness of the void beneath him.  At her back is a shadow, scarred and bald, with greying skin and bony fingers on her shoulders.

The dark swallows him and he wakes, shaking, the burning beginnings of a scream on his lips.  His heart is racing, pounding violently between his ribs until he rolls and coughs, an itching and tantalizing desperation to breathe suffocating him.  He claws at the edges of the mattress, willing the air to flood him and wash the dream away. 

But even in the quiet, her face is still painted in every inch around him, the bow of her lips turned down into something of a scowl, her eyes narrowed.  Dangerous.  Cruel, even.  It doesn’t seem right, even as the room around him tilts and bends at the corners.  His head pounds, erratic and off-beat as he slumps into the mattress.  The drugs are wearing off. 

 

* * *

 

The bite of the bottle has never been so perfect, he decides, slumped into the corner between the cabinet and the refrigerator.  The whiskey runs smooth, tasting fine and almost sweet over his dried tongue, and he has a mind to chastise himself for thinking he could have gone on without it.  Bringing it to his lips again, he drinks, humming against the glass.

Something is poking, pinching, digging into his shoulder, and he shifts into the wall until a white-hot flare of pain threatens to overwhelm him.  When it doesn’t, he dips his shoulder further, feeling the spread widen, the pinch like a claw.  He opts to ignore it, shifting into the wall once more until the sting of it presses hot and angry, and he winces.

Swallowing slowly, Kylo peels himself from the space, finding red.  When he reaches back, his fingers cut on a shard of glass, and he pulls it free from the round of his shoulder with little more than a gasp.  It’s slick and hot, glinting in the low light of the kitchen.  More than likely it had stuck to him when he’d fallen into the pile of wood and lamp shade in the hall.

He lets it fall, listening to the clatter, the splatter of blood flecking out a handful of inches from where the shard comes to a rest.

It’s been eight days. 

 

* * *

 _I'm gonna keep getting underneath you_  
_And all our friends want us to fall in love_

* * *

 

A brief moment of consciousness takes him, and he jolts, bouncing his head off the edge of the bathtub.  The water’s gone cold, pooled less than a handful of inches in the bottom of the tub.  Deep into his core, however, is a twisting heat, gnawing and angry and sad all at once, and he clutches himself as he blinks, staring up at the ceiling of his bathroom. 

For a moment, his heartbeat matches the thrum, the tug of her, and he tries not to cry when it fades.

 

* * *

 

The pulsing between his ears is rising, pitching like a siren as he blinks away what little light swirls in the open, dusty air.  The back of his throat is dry, the flat of his tongue tacky and sticking to the walls and roof of his mouth.  Chafed lips crackle and burn when he breathes, and he bumps into the walls more than he cares to admit while rounding the corner of the hallway.  His scalp tingles, undoubtedly as a result of his hair sticking every which way, but his hands hang languidly at his sides, unmoving.

He might not have pulled himself from the bed had the pangs twisting his stomach into knots not forced him over the side, the world toppling with nausea and pain.  The allure of whiskey and white can only sustain for so long, but he doesn’t remember the last time he ate, and the disquieting off-kilter rhythm of his heart isn’t helping, either.

So he stands, somewhat, tucked into the wall as he is, fingers feeling the textured plaster and paint before hooking over the corner.  He maneuvers carefully passed broken and torn pieces of furniture, glass, and fabric, the grain of the floor creaking under his toes. 

Pursing his lips, he deepens his grip on the wall, focusing on pushing one foot in front of the other.  It’s easier said than done, of course, and a new wave of nausea and agony seizes him from the center, a hand clutching and clawing at his skin through an old t-shirt when he hesitates.

The living room is a mess, as he’s left it, but certain fragments have been shifted, rearranged, and as fucked as he is he knows he has yet to be in a state to clean anything.  Cushions have been returned to their place in the couch’s frame, squished and clawed as they are, and he doesn’t need to meet the man’s gaze to shudder under the weight of Snoke’s stare. 

“How kind of you to join the living,” the words are raspy, cold, and Kylo squeezes his eyes shut, leaning into the wall.  “For the most part.  It’s a shame you had to wreck the apartment I was so gracious to give you.”

“What do you want?”  He hisses, breathing deeply through his nose, uncaring how the man had even entered in the first place.  His core hurts, a shiver coiling around his spine and leeching into his limbs. 

“What I want is no longer a concern of yours, insolent boy,” Snoke muses, and Kylo presses his temple to the wall, opening his eyes long enough to see that the man has stood from the couch.  He doesn’t look quite so tall anymore.  “After your efforts of leaking information to Alliance, and your insistence on protecting that scavenger of a woman you’ve been doting after for months, you lost your privileges and authority.  Be grateful you still have your breath.”

For all his merit and standing, Kylo snorts.  “Is that meant to frighten me?”

Briefly, he thinks Snoke looks surprised.  The eyes widen, the face slack in a second of hesitation.  Then, the mask returns, the mouth set into a hard line, and the gaze harder.

“You would do well to mind your tongue.  You are a child, and I’ve had enough of your games.”

“I’ve had enough of your shitty one-liners,” he tastes the influence on his father, straightening slowly against the edge of the wall.  His skin burns, the edges of the world fuzzy and faded, but he’s _angry_ now.  There’s metal on his tongue, sparks snapping behind his teeth.  “If you think I give a single _fuck_ about what you think of me, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“I _made_ you.”  Snoke snarls, weaving around the mess of coffee table legs and glass, invading Kylo’s space in a heartbeat.  “I made everything you are, everything you have, and everything you’ve done.  If not for the find work you’ve done in destroying yourself, you would be nothing now.”

Chuckling, Kylo tips his head and meets his old mentor’s eyes.  “No.  ‘M still a Solo.  Still a Skywalker.  What does that make _you?_ ”

An icy, bony hand lashes, curling around his jaw, digging into the hollow of his cheeks until the skin stings.  He doesn’t grimace, focusing intently on the way Snoke’s eyes widen, pupils quaking as they dilate.  His breath is rancid, uneven.

“You are weak, and foolish.”

“Probably.  But at least I’m observant.”  He muses.

He gives Snoke less than a moment to ponder his words, before snapping his head out of the man’s grasp, and giving his bony chest a firm shove.  Tipped, with Kylo’s foot pinning his shoe, Snoke falls back into a sea of steel and glass.

 

 _If you wanna start a fight, you better throw the first punch_  
_Make it a good one_  
_And if you wanna make it through the night_  
_You better say my name like the good, the bad, and the dirty_


	13. Impossible Year

_There's no sunshine, this impossible year_  
_Only black days and sky grey, and clouds full of fear_  
_And storms full of sorrow that won't disappear_  
_Just typhoons and monsoons, this impossible year_

* * *

 

_…the President of First Order Incorporate was found dead this morning in an apartment belonging to one of his employees.  Officials say that the cause of death results from falling upon a piece of furniture—it is still undetermined whether or not this is being considered a homicide.  Former employee and resident of the complex, Kylo Ren, also known as Ben Organa Solo, was also taken in for evaluation and questioning._

Click.

_…Kylo Ren of First Order Incorporate was arrested early this morning from his apartment on South Seventh.  Officials say he is the primary suspect in the recent homicide of his former employer, President Snoke, who was found in Ren’s apartment at the time of Ren’s arrest._

Click.

_…hysteria surges in First Order Incorporate at the sudden death of President Snoke, and the immediate arrest of apprentice and employee Kylo Ren.  This morning officials report that Ren was taken from his apartment following a noise complaint from his neighbors—police arrived to find Ren in a fit of drug-induced mania, and his former employer deceased upon a broken steel and glass table._

Click.  Click.  _Click._

“What are we gonna do about this?”

“What we can.  Our priority is Ben.”

“We don’t even know if he wants our help, or if he wants us to call him that.”

“ _Han._ ”

“I’m being realistic, Leia.  He’s not the same person who stormed out of our home and our lives years ago.  A lot of serious stuff happened to him.”

“I’m more than well aware of that.”

There’s a sigh.  His eyes twitch, and flutter open slowly.  There’s white—nothing but, to be fair.  White walls, white ceilings, white-cream and grey machines at his side, a tube in his nose, an IV in his arm, his wrists—

Cuffed to the rails of the bed.

“ _Ben,_ ” he hears.  His gaze shifts and he sees his mother across the room, hair pulled back, face pale and wearing deep blues and greys.  They make her look older than she really is.  _She looks older than she really is_.

Beside her is Han, wearing his dusty leather jacket and worker’s jeans, hands on his hips as he sighs.  Salt and pepper hair looks tousled, as if ruffled by wrinkled fingers and worry.  Kylo says nothing, swallowing thickly instead as he looks from father to mother, and back again.  The television mounted in the corner continues to drawl with a news report of his employer’s death, and his suspected involvement.

_Not suspected,_ he wants to say.  _It’s true.  It’s proven.  I killed him.  And it was worth it_.

“Hey, honey,” Leia says, coming to his side, her hand flashing into his view and touching his face before he can react.  The cuffs clink lightly as his hand twitches at his side, and the monitor nearby blips a bit faster than it had before.  “It’s all right, you’re all right.  You’re safe now.”

At the foot of the bed, Han snorts.  Leia casts him a glance over her shoulder, but says nothing.

“Where am I?”  Kylo rasps, meeting his mother’s stare once more.

Leia breathes slowly.  “Cloud City Rehabilitation and Recovery.  You were admitted this morning.”

Blinking once, Kylo looks to Han, and back to Leia.  “I imagine the police were just waiting for me to wake up so they could question me, is that correct?” 

His mother looks defeated.  “Not… entirely.  I had to pull a few strings, called Lando to serve as your attorney.  They’re not allowed to come near you until after you’ve recovered and received some treatment.  You were brought in half-crazed and suffering withdrawal, Ben—”

“Not withdrawal,” he says, shaking his head, words scratched and throat aching as the action of speaking feels like chewing on glass.  “Tried overdosing.  Snoke—he showed up, and I just…”

“What happened, kid?”  Han asks, soft and gentle, his hands sliding into his pants’ pockets.  Kylo sighs deeply, shaking his head some.  He moves to bring his fingers to his hair, to ease the strain in the back his neck with a touch along his scalp.  But the clink of metal on railing, the pull against his skin, stops him.  Right.

Where does he even begin?  Where _should_ he begin?  The beginning, where he left them, spitting hate and vitriol like lyrics, claiming that he hated them with every fiber of his arrogant and petulant being?  Somewhere in the middle, where Snoke’s manipulation and twisted image of his grandmother’s legacy became warped with an addiction to cocaine and alcohol as a means of coping with a lost childhood and a sense of personal failure?  Near the end, where he fell in love and ruined the life of the one person he adored more than anything?

_Rey…_

A breath leaves him as Kylo looks down to where his hands are restrained at his sides, fingers pale and palms itching, wrists a bit chafed from metal, from pulling, no doubt from thrashing in his sleep.  _How must that have looked to them,_ he wonders, _to see their only son writhing in an agony they cannot understand?_

Biting his lip until he tastes the iron sting of blood, Kylo inhales slowly, before he lifts his head to meet his mother and father’s stare. 

* * *

  _There's no good times, this impossible year  
Just a beachfront of bad blood, and a coast that's unclear_

* * *

They rule it as a homicide, followed by a bench trial with hefty emphasis on a mental incompetency to withstand criminal sentencing as a result of drug abuse and psychological manipulation.  Though ill it may be to speak poorly of the dead, there are a number of ledgers and drafts brought to attention to shed light on Snoke’s misgivings, and Kylo is granted one year of probation, six months of mandatory drug rehabilitation, and a ten-year prohibition of working within any major money-lending corporation—including his family’s.

He's fine with this.  Completely.  Utterly.  He even cries with joy as he drops his head into his hands, his suit itchier and tighter than it’s ever felt, a looming heat and weight on the backs of his shoulders as his parents sit on either side of him.

He’s been let off a lot easier than many of the people he once worked with, especially now that rumor and fact are working hand in hand to undermine the entirety of First Order.

_Too easy,_ his uncertain and overwhelmed mind insists as he looks about the court room, quiet and empty beyond Lando, the prosecutor—a young and ambitious woman who present fact to his instability, but little else to push for more—the judge, his parents, and the bailiff.  _She pities you,_ a quietness tells him of the prosecutor, as the darkness in her eyes and the thin line of her lips can only further justify as she shuffles papers and closes her things.

A closed trial, unintended for viewing by the public given the precarious nature of both defendant and circumstance, served undoubtedly as his savior this day.  Had he been resigned to the demanding and unyielding flood of a jury selection, of awaiting their deliberation, the process itself would have labored intensively, and would have resulted in far worse than he was granted.  Still, he can hear the buzzing of reporters outside, many of them surely ready to fire insidious accusations and questions about the audacity of a closed bench trial following a homicide as opposed to the expected spectacular.  And, yet, where once he might have felt a gnawing and unintelligible apprehension at the attention, the anxiety of pushing beyond the threshold of safety and into that delirious unknown, he feels, instead, _free_. 

* * *

_All the guests at the party, they're so insincere  
They just intrude and exclude, this impossible year_

* * *

The nightmares and sweats still come, the flurry of white-hot agony tearing bone and sinew from muscle and flesh, from the inside out, only further escalates the longer he’s kept in his old rooms.  The bed is too small, the walls containing too many memories for adequate healing, and the tears that roll down his cheeks are surprisingly cold, thick and viscous like syrup and not at all like the saline that had been pumped under his skin at the hospital.

He shivers and shakes violently, chaotic thrashing of his dreams causing pillows to fly and lamps to break, and more than once he wakes to Leia pinning him down and coaxing him into as much of reality as he’s willing to withstand, a siren pulsing in his ears and drowning his thoughts of _kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself you ungrateful swine._

_Ben,_ she calls him, smoothing his hair back, her indomitable insistence that she regard him as her son and not the sham of a man he pretended to be.  _It’s all right, Ben, it’s all right, you’re all right._

He chokes on the single syllable of Rey’s name more than once, half-broken sobs as he digs his fingers into his mother’s shoulders and screams, addiction festering like poison in his blood until exhaustion leaves him slumped in her embrace.  Broken capillaries and blood vessels leave his cheeks bruised and his eyes bloodshot, and the first month of treatment feels like a waste of time in the pits of hell. 

* * *

_There's no you and me, this impossible year_   
_Only heartache and heartbreak, and gin made of tears_

* * *

Three months of treatment and he tries reaching out to Poe and to Finn, hoping for some kind of fucking _miracle_ that they’ll be willing to speak to him, to tell him about Rey.

Finn ignores him, and he learns later from Poe over a quiet cup of coffee in the confines of his parents’ home—the apartment being ransacked and taken from him, as it had been First Order property—that the other man is like an extension of Rey, full of everything she feels and expresses but times ten at best.  Kylo nods slowly, staring down into the blackened depths of his mug, cooling now between his hands as he curls up on the couch a little tighter than before.

Poe sighs deeply, seated in an armchair across the living room, his own tea held between his hands.  A faint stripe of white peppers the temples of his hair, a few worry lines creasing his brow where, during the fold of summer, they had not been so deep.

“I haven’t heard from her, either,” Poe says at last, his mouth twisting into a faint and thin line of distress.  Kylo feels his heart twist.  “She hasn’t talked to Finn in the better part of a month, said something about taking off and going south for a little bit to get away from the cold.”

“From me, you mean,” Kylo whispers. 

“Finn says she didn’t say anything about you.”

“Finn doesn’t like me much right now,” Kylo insists, eyeing the other man carefully.  Poe snorts, and shrugs a shoulder.

“Well, that’s true.  He’ll get over it in time.”

“You think very highly of that prospect,” Kylo breathes, drinking his coffee slowly.

“One of us has to,” Poe replies, raising a thick brow as he drinks his own tea.  A pause passes between them, unsteady and quivering like a nervous heartbeat, and Kylo bites the inside of his cheek.  “Look, Kylo…  You made a mistake.  A big one.  But in that mistake you thought you were doing something right—you were trying to protect her.  You _did_ protect her, from what I hear.  You made sure she was taken care of.  You helped make sure she didn’t lose _everything_ , and someone in her position who’s never had much of anything before?  That’s a big deal.”

“I still should have told her,” Kylo says, meeting Poe’s eyes.

“Well, yeah,” another nod, a blatant and relentless _of fucking course_ , “not mentioning that you worked for one of the most corrupt organizations our generation and our parents’ generation has ever known is a pretty big deal, for sure.  But you changed, and you wanted to change.  For you, for her.  There’s some honor in what you tried to do.”

Honor is not exactly the word he might have chosen, but it’s one nonetheless that stands to describe their circumstance, and for that he’s grateful he was not required to establish its importance.  Still, the bitter darkness that floods him heavier than the coffee in his hand remains to be foul and thick as ever, an encroaching and unwavering tidal wave of emotion and self-pity, ever-demanding to be felt, to be acknowledged.

“Thank you, Poe,” Kylo whispers at last. 

“No need.  You’ve still got some shit to work out,” he says, and Kylo chuckles quietly.

“I’ll get on that.”

“You’d better.” 

* * *

_The bitter pill is swallowed, the scars souvenir  
That tattoo, your last bruise, this impossible year_

* * *

He finishes treatment, and between excellent progress and good behavior, the remainder of his probation is waved with an understanding that his prohibition remains, and that he’ll continue seeking therapy and appropriate medicinal assistance for mood imbalances.  These are fine, he tells himself, happy to pick up prescriptions to stabilize, to calm, to become numb and nothing so that his sleep may be uninterrupted.

A week after he finishes his program, he calls her.  It goes straight to voicemail, and Kylo hears her voice for the first time in over six months.

_This is Rey.  Sorry I can’t get to you right now.  Leave a name, a number, and a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can._

His heart launches itself so high and so suddenly into his throat that there is a solid ten-second stretch of absolute _silence_ before he hangs up furiously, nearly throwing his phone across the room in response.  Tremors dance down his spine, through his arms and legs, his fingers twitching spastically as he breathes light and quick between clenched teeth, eyes wide and unseeing. 

The anxiety attack doesn’t register for another hour, and he takes his appropriate dosage of medication twenty minutes early to stave off another wave of hysteria. 

Finding his phone somehow wedged between pillow and couch cushion, Kylo sees no missed calls, no messages.  Six months and haunting of his habits come whispering back like devils of an open field, cackling and setting fire to progress as he presses the curve of his phone to his brow.

_Rey_ , he thinks, his heart burning between his lungs. 

* * *

_There's never air to breathe, there's never in-betweens  
These nightmares always hang on past the dream_

* * *

Four more days, and he tries again in the middle of the night, when the edges of his sleep are terrifying and indescribable in their shape, the capricious flux of whether he might encounter horror or apathy in unconsciousness reducing his nails to nubs, his battery life to half instead of full.  The image of Rey’s face must surely be seared into the screen itself for how long he’s left it on and open, staring at her deep brown eyes and her wide mouth.

Poe had insisted he try to reach out, to apologize, to do more than just fix himself and wallow in self-pity for his errors.  _Fixing yourself is a good start,_ the older man had said, _but you’ve gotta do more, too.  You owe her that much._

He owes her more than anyone could ever possibly imagine.

Breathing between chattering teeth, Kylo scrubs his eyes with his fingers until stars dance across his vision, until the sockets themselves tingle with a disapproving sense of overstimulation.  Six months and nearly two weeks.  Six months and two weeks.  Six and a half—

Stop.

Trembling, he swipes into his contacts, finding her in his favorites—she’s the only one there, she’s been the only one there for a while, and yet… yet…

Stop.

_Stop, just stop_.

_Rey._

Beautiful, bright, brilliant, bold Rey.  The woman who haunted him from the moment he laid eyes on her in a seedy club somewhere downtown where she likely didn’t belong.  The woman who went after those who owed debts like a bounty hunter, unafraid to throw punches and get dirty, who still had the most gentle and tender of touches.  The woman who let him call in the middle of the night, who called _him_ in the middle of the night, whose heartbeat he felt and recognized as astutely as his own, whose very existence could have been scarred into his soul for eternity and he would die happy with just _that_.

The woman he nearly ruined in his effort to save.  The woman he should’ve known could have saved herself, could have helped save _him_ if he’d just let her.

_Didn’t Obi-Wan say I would drown us both?_

Clenching his teeth, Kylo tips the curve back to his brow, just as before, until the hardened and metal edge leaves a print across his skin, a headache blossoming along the bone of his skull from the pressure alone.

_Rey_ , his heart whispers, one last quiet act of desperation to reach out to the woman he so dreadfully does not deserve.

_What would I even say to you?  I miss you?  I love you?  I’m sorry?  I’m better now?  I underwent six months of therapy and cold-turkey habit-kicking just to muster the courage and find the balls to reach out to you like this?  What do I say?  What’s worthy of you?_

Huffing, Kylo blinks stray and sudden tears from the corners of his eyes, his thumb unintentionally tapping the screen of his phone. 

He doesn’t even hear it ring, but in the dark of his room, the analog clock on the bedside reading a glaring _four-thirty-seven AM_ , he does hear—

_This is Rey.  Sorry I can't get to you right now..._

* * *

_There's no sunshine, there's no you and me  
There's no good times this impossible year_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JESUS FUCK HI WELCOME BACK AFTER A YEAR!?


	14. The End Of All Things

_Whether near or far, I am always yours_  
_Any change in time, we are young again_

He returns to the booth in the corner of the café, the dark outreach of the edge of Coruscant still sleeping as dawn has not quite kissed the city.

It’s not hunger that draws him here, though upon quietly sneaking through the front door and making quick eye contact with the morning hostess, a cup of coffee is brought to him, and a menu placed upon his table.  A sympathetic gaze lingering a breath longer than necessary, but at least there are no looks of malice from the staff, or even from the only other patron across the restaurant.

It hasn’t changed, he realizes, letting his attention roam from pressed and faded leather booths and chairs, laminate floors that have seen better days, wall paper and portraits that are aged from time and light.  The feel is what remains the most consistent, a sense of calming peace and tranquility, especially in this early morning.  He remembers summers here, a few late autumn breakfasts when things were better in some respects, and less so in others. 

This isn’t the first time he’s returned since everything happened.  He came, once, a month after treatment ended, a terrifying and emotional visit following another ignored call, silence filling the space where words should have made a voicemail.  That had been the heat of summer, where he still wore long sleeves and light jackets despite the heatwaves and the glaring sun, where he kept his head bowed and his hands blocking his mouth and face in a desperate effort to have a sense of normalcy among a populous that sees him as a murderer.

And he is.  He doesn’t deny that.  Better to be a murderer than be an integral and active part in the total destruction of social democracy.  Even complacency would be damning by comparison.

He’ll take this.  He’ll take knowing that the abrasion carved across the state by greed and tyranny can at last begin some measure of healing, that new development can progress and rebuild what he ruined, what he destroyed.  He’ll take being hated if it will mean that his mistakes can be fixed.  And if there are means by which he may assist, he may make amends and pay reparations for the hurt, for the damages done, he’ll do them.  A thousand times over he’ll do them.

Sipping his coffee, he breathes slowly as he lets his eyes slip shut, teeth chattering briefly against the ceramic as he drinks.  Grey and overcast light spills between the blinds of the window next to his booth, and he sets the mug down once more, a twitch shaking the contents, a bead of dark brown sloshing over the side.

Six months of treatment and therapy, and another four months of incomprehensible _effort_ to just be better, and some things will always remain.

_This is fine,_ he tells himself, bringing a finger to trace the rim, the steam wafting along the edges.  _This is fine.  This is fine.  I am fine._

Across the restaurant the door opens and closes again, the hostess’s distant voice greeting the newest patron.  Beneath his coat, his two shirts, and the pock-and-mole-covered expanse of his chest, an old and familiar hum warms him more than any coffee could ever do.

Frowning, he feels a quake between his lungs, a tingling that courses its way along his spine, into the back of his head, stealing his breath like a punch to the gut.  When he looks up, there’s a shadow crossing his path, a hand curling around the edge of the seat opposite from him, before Rey slides into the booth.

Her freckles are darker across her skin, the honeyed tone warmer from days in the sun, no doubt.  Many more than what she may have spent a year ago in Obi-Wan’s shop.  Her hair is half-pulled back into a pony tail, tresses tickling her shoulders and the back of her neck, yet the style makes her look older, and far more mature than he’s ever seen of her.  Wide lips look soft, a pale pink against the darkened flush of her cheeks.

Ever present is the birth mark, the few spots dancing down her jaw and throat.  She’s bundled in a coat and scarf, and no doubt if he were to look beneath the table he’d find her in sturdy pants, heavy boots, perhaps even a bit mud-slicked from wherever she disappeared to.  Though none of that matters, for his breath sucks itself between his teeth as he stares, wide-eyed at her for the first time in nearly a _year_.

“Hi,” he whispers at last, the ghost of a _Hello_ she graced him with during their first encounter tickling his ear.  This time, he’s met with silence, a hardened gaze seeming so dark and cold, where a year ago there’d been brightness, there’d been smiles and sunshine and—

And she didn’t know, yet, the betrayal he would cause.

Closing his mouth, he looks back down to his coffee mug, acutely aware that Rey’s eyes never leave his face.  The door opens and closes again with another customer, footsteps fading across weathered laminate as they find a table further away from where he and Rey sit.

Glancing up again, he takes her appearance in once more, seeing the highlights of sunbleach in her hair, her roots almost a golden brown, baby hairs a pale blonde.  Her eyes remain guarded, an unreadable coldness in her expression, but she’s not frowning, or snarling, or spitting.  There’s no _anger_ necessarily in her face, but the overwhelming shift from the tenderness he remembers festers with an unruly and unforgiving ache in his bones. 

_I deserve this_ , he thinks, meeting her eyes.  Has she even blinked?

His fingers twitch around his coffee mug.  Rey doesn’t seem to notice.

“You cut your hair,” he whispers, remembering the long waves that were once thick enough to separate into three buns along the back of her head, flowing and beautiful. 

“So did you.”

He swallows, and nods, the locks he sported having been cut and trimmed down, faint curls tickling his ears.  Reminiscent of a childhood he only vaguely remembers.  Better the boy he was than the man he pretended to be. 

Still, three words and his heart is yearning, a push in his mind to reach for her, to beg forgiveness, to express in a hundred words and a single breath how much he misses her, how much he wishes he could take back the mistakes he made.  But he bites the inside of his cheek instead, his fingers tightening around his mug to keep from lashing out, from creating a consciousness of their own to touch, to feel, to trace along a cheek his misses and feel hair that’s taunted his withdrawal-wracked memories.

A waitress comes by and sets down a mug and a squeeze bottle in front of Rey.  Green tea, and honey.

“I tried calling,” he continues, struggling to meet her eyes, so he stares instead at the steaming cup of tea that she doesn’t bother touching.  _Please_ , his selfishness cries.

Please, what?

“I know,” she says, voice even and flat.  He glances to her face.  She blinks.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts at last, some unspoken resolve that had been keeping quiet agony at bay breaking apart, his heart beating furiously on his tongue, forcing itself onto the table between them.

“Don’t.”

The light over their table flickers, and hums to life.  He swallows again, his heart still frantic and relentless.

Rey shifts in her seat, pressing her shoulders back against the padded rest as her hands come up and curl around her mug.  She doesn’t drink, but she mimics his gesture, confidence and fervent composure keeping her up while he hunches in his half, fingers digging into unyielding ceramic, head bowed like a kicked dog.  He watches her eyes flick back and forth between his, her nostrils flaring gently with a breath he doesn’t hear her take.

“I don’t want excuses, or apologies.  Just tell me why.”  She says at last.

He exhales deeply, head tilting a little before he looks away again.  If he refuses to answer her, he’ll lose her forever that much is certain.  The wrong answer will cause her to walk away, anyway, but whatever _right_ answer she seeks, he’s uncertain he knows it.  No excuses or apologies, he can’t even admit the shame he feels for having lied to her, for having gone behind her back.

Biting his tongue, he momentarily makes to drink his coffee again.  Thinking better of it, he sets it back down with a heavy _thunk_.  His gaze finds hers, holding it despite the flare of _everything_ that threatens to kiss, touch, consume the entirety of what is left of him.  His heart pounds on his tongue, demanding to break free from the confines of his lips, to drop into her lap and in her hands and show itself for what it has always been—broken, bent, manipulated, yet so full of affection and adoration for her.

Always for her.

She doesn’t want excuses because she already knows them, she doesn’t require apologies because she’s already heart them.  She sees his shame clear as day in his eyes and on his face.  She just wants the _reason_.

“Because I let pain and selfishness warp ambition,” he says at last, maintaining their stare even as his lungs feel like their screaming, his bones ready to shatter, his soul cowering beneath the coldness that has no place in her presence.  “Grief and pride turned me toward someone who preyed upon hurt, who showed me the legacy my grandparents and parents had left behind and continued, who told me I could make it better if I reshaped all of it.”

Rey’s silent, her eyes focused on him, her hands still curled around the cup. 

“I’ll never know the isolation you felt of not having a family, for that which I felt was largely a result of my own making by pushing Han and Leia away for so long.  I felt they couldn’t understand—maybe they couldn’t, but I should have tried.  We all should have.  But back then that didn’t matter to me.  I wanted to be greater, better in every regard, than them.  I wanted to prolong a vision that my grandparents hard started with the means they could never accomplish.  I wanted to take risks, and instead I made mistakes.  Countless mistakes.  And instead of owning up to them, I let my complacency for their damage turn into coping with things that perpetuated _more_ mistakes.”

Eloquence has never been a strong suit, yet for once there’s poetry in his honesty, and he sighs deeply as a hand moves from his mug to his face, rubbing his brow, his temple, pressure digging under the skin and along the skull in an effort to just… _feel_ anything else.  Anything at all.

“And I’ll be begging your forgiveness for as long as I live, and I know I’ll never deserve it if I ever get it,” he continues, at last lowering his gaze passed her scarf, where her hands rest around her mug, to the sparse handful of inches between their fingers.  “If I could go back and change it, if I could’ve just found the _fucking_ courage to be honest with you, I would have.  I should have.  You deserved that, after everything else you dealt with, you deserve someone who is strong enough to be honest.”

The corners of his eyes sting, blurring faintly before he’s rubbing them with the tips of his fingers, wiping away the tears before they can fall.

“We can’t go back,” Rey says, and he shudders, a soft breath leaving him.  “And we can’t just start over, either.”

“I know that.”  He sighs, looking down into his coffee.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t go forward.”

Frowning, he glances up to her again, and for the first time there’s a change in Rey’s demeanor.  The coldness still clings to her eyes, a hollowness in her expression that begets hurt and suffering.  As his heart beats, that gentle thrumming that for so long served as a near-tangible lifeline between his soul and hers, returns with a calming surety that this is, in fact, not the end, at all.

A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, subtle and swift before it passes, and he feels her fingers touch the back of his hand.

“We’ve got some shit to work on,” she insists, and he laughs once.

“That’s what Poe told me,” he muses, looking down to watch her fingertips caress the back of his knuckles.  He moves his hand from his mug, and her touch slides to his palm.  Sparks tickle under his skin, firing up his nerves and veins, another shiver rippling through his body.

“I know,” Rey admits, turning her hand over, and prompting his fingers to feel her palm.  Calloused, worked.  She’s been busy this year.  “He said you’ve been working towards getting better.”

“Treatment,” he says, nodding.  “And therapy, still.”

“You still have nightmares, though.”

Lifting his head, there’s a knowing edge in her stare, and the tether strikes a new chord, stronger, louder than the pulsing of his heart between his ears.  Rey inhales slowly, rolling her shoulders some as she adjusts in her seat, but her hand doesn’t retreat from his touch. 

“I didn’t want to miss you, but I did.  Because how could I not?”  She tells him, her gaze focused on their hands, hers flat on the table, his fingers drawing circles against her palm.  “You’re still the only person I’ve felt… anything like this with.  I wanted to hate you for what happened.  I might have even convinced myself that I did.  But when it came down to it, and you called, and… the only reason I never answered was because something told me neither of us were ready.  This—”

She touches her sternum, and he feels the pulse of a touch against his own chest.

“I woke up this morning and remembered so clearly our first meeting here,” Rey continues, her eyes finding his once more.  “It’s like five in the morning and I wake up, clear-headed and aware of _everything_ and I think about this place, this booth, talking to you for the first time.  And sure enough I come, and I open the door and here you are.”

He sighs, smiling softly.

“Here I am.”

This time, the smile she gives him is a bit wider, a bit softer, her fingers sliding between his.

She breathes slowly, a moment of hesitation, before she asks.  “Obi… called you Ben?”

He nods.  “Birth name.  Kylo was… something I chose.  Thinking I could separate myself from my family.”

Rey hums.  “Which would you prefer?”

He holds her gaze, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Ben.”

Her smile widens.

“All right, Ben.”

_All right_. 

 

_In these coming years many things will change_  
_But the way I feel will remain the same  
_ _Lay us down—we're in love_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Shit. Took long enough but here we are. Did the thing.  
> Thanks for sticking around y'all, it was fun <3
> 
> Also this art by lisrudy365 got me through this chapter because it's just that beautiful check it out:  
> http://lisrudy365.tumblr.com/post/152162511219


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